The Other Side
by seastar97
Summary: What was going through Peeta's mind when he tossed Katniss the bread that rainy day? What brought them together in the arena, and most importantly, what brought their hearts together in the end? The Hunger Games from the vantage point of the boy with the bread. *UPDATED WEEKLY!* Reviews are GREATLY APPRECIATED!
1. Chapter 1

**EDIT: Hi, guys :) Umm... I just wanted to encourage you to review, it's really the only way that I know people are reading the story (well, other than traffic stats). It's the only way I know people are ****_enjoying_**** the story :) So, I'll love you times a million and I'll give you cookies if you leave me reviews. Crazy long ones, crazy short ones, I don't care, I like them all :D So, you THANKS!**

**A/N: Hello. Well... This is my second Hunger Games story. The first one was kind of a flop :/. Oh well. I hope you like this one, it was a breeze to write and really fun! I love the Hunger Games. I know Peeta's POV is not a new concept, but I'm trying to give Peeta his own distinct inner-voice, like Katniss. This chapter doesn't really display that very much, but it's only the begining! So review, please! And subscribe, I have several other projects I'm working on. I didn't mean to steal any names or plotlines from anyone else's stories, I'm trying to be original, so sorry if I did.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Hunger Games. There are quite a few quotes from the book in this chapter. All the credit for the characters goes to Suzanne Collins.**

* * *

><p>I wake to the sound of the mockingjays calling outside my window. Today would be beautiful – if it weren't so ominous. It's a bit deceiving, the warm rays of the rising sun slanting through my open window, the scent of bread wafting up from the bakery, and the mockingjay melodies. None of these things can make me forget that it's the day of the reaping.<p>

My mattress creaks as I attempt sitting up and consider going back to sleep. If there was ever a day to stay in bed. But all the citizens of District 12 – all the citizens of Panem – are required to drag themselves out of bed today. All the citizens, that is, except those in the Capitol.

I shiver as my feet hit the cold, polished bedroom floor. My brother is still snoring in the opposite corner of the room. Though I know my family is among the more privileged in our district, I can't help feeing especially unlucky today. I know I have little to fear during the reaping; my name is only being entered four times, and yet the Games still plague my nightmares. But I know the kids and parents from the Seam are going though hell and back. They do every year. I can't believe that there are children who have to take out tesserae in order to just barely scrape by, while my family, here in town, lives in relative comfort.

After I comb my hair and put on some clothes reasonable for reaping, since all prospects have left me, and I find my self padding down to the bakery.

I'm watching the sunrise though the big display window while my father pulls warm loaves of bread from the ovens, when the bells on the door jingle. Gale Hawthorne from the Seam steps in.

"Gale," my father greets genially, no trace of weariness in his voice. I know he's been up for hours, anxious for his sons. Only two of us are still eligible for the Games – Aaron is nineteen, but Cole is eighteen. At sixteen, I am the youngest.

"It's a bit early for a trade, son," my father continues.

"I figured you'd be up, sir," Gale replies coolly. "You always are on –" Gale cuts himself off. The reaping in something of a forbidden topic in Twelve.

"Yes, I suppose I am. What have you got for me?"

Gale holds up a squirrel. It's not shot through the eye, like usual, but through the temple.

My father points this out. Gale smiles tightly. "This is my kill, not Katniss's. I'm not as much of a shooting whiz as her."

_Katniss. _My heart speeds a little at her name. Sometimes she accompanies Gale, or comes by herself to trade with my father, like she has for years. Gale is constantly complimenting her. I feel a twinge of jealousy, though I know it's silly. I've had a crush on Katniss ever since that day five years ago.

It was raining and bitterly cold that day, so I was holed up in my room, playing with Cole. I heard the clanging of the metal garbage can lids outside my window for the second time that day. So I looked down and saw a sickly skinny girl, peering into the empty can. The trash had been collected only a few minutes before. I heard the bakery door fly open and my mother came into view, beating at the bony girl with a broom, screaming things I cringed at. _Seam brat. Scum. Sludge._

Cole came over to the window and stood beside me. His brow crinkled. "I wish mom wouldn't do that; I don't think that girl was hurting anything." My brother and I shared the same soft spot for Seam kids.

I stepped away from the window, and stormed down the stairs. I'd always thought about standing up to my mother one day. Today would be as good as any.

But standing the stairwell, I lost my resolve. My mother had just reentered the bakery, red patches on her cheeks, her breathing erratic. She looked horrifying.

"Peeta," she snapped, "get that bread of the oven."

I hustled over, not really in the mood for a beating, and took the long bread paddle from its hook on the wall and reached into the oven for the bread.

The loaves wobbled and almost fell from the paddle into the flames when I got an idea.

"Peeta, you _stupid_ child!" my mother screeched as I fished the loaves from the bottom of the oven. Though the open door, I saw the girl stumbling away. Then I felt the blow my mother planted on my cheek. It stung and I winced, staggering out the door to escape.

"Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy brunt bread!"

The crusts of the bread were black and scorching hot, but I held fast for them until I reached the back of the house where the girl from the Seam was collapsed.

She flinches when she sees me. I avoided her gaze as I tore the fire-damaged sections from the bread and tossed them in the pig's trough, my hands all but blistering. But I could still tell her eyes were on me. And I recognized those eyes. Katniss Everdeen's.

I'd had my eye on Katniss ever since we were in the first grade, when she sang the Valley Song for the class. She sang like her father; Stephen Everdeen was always singing when he came around to trade with my father. When she sang - when both of them sang - the birds fell silent and listened.

I wasn't sure I would ever forget the day with the bread.

"Oh well," my father smiles. "Peeta doesn't like the heads anyway, do you?" he asks.

I shake my head without out taking my eyes from the window, the sunset.

My father wishes Gale luck and sends him off with a loaf of warm bread.

"Are you in the mood for squirrel?" he asks, shutting the door.

"Not really." It's the truth. My stomach is roiling with guilt. Gale's going to need that luck. His name has probably been entered a hundred times.

"Alright, we'll save it for tonight. I've invited the Cartwrights over for dinner if... everything goes well."

I nod.

"Is there any chance we could invite the Hawthornes over, too?" I ask suddenly. It seems right. "And the Everdeens."

My father looks confused. "I'm not sure your mother would approve. Why?"

I shrug. "I just want to be hospitable."

My mother stomps down the stairs in her usual dark mood. Reaping does nothing to improve her temperament, although I would have thought watching another "seam brat" going into the Games would have put her in a better frame of mind.

"Good morning," I say, in spite of my dark thoughts. She grunts in reply.

I watch my mother, moving around the bakery, and keep well away from her. She speaks to no one. I suspect she's regretting treating her children like pig dung when today, they can be so easily taken from her. But it'll have passed by tomorrow. It always does.

Once my brothers come down, my family sits at the kitchen table in the back of the bakery with a muffin each. It's all we can spare, what with all the sales that will be made today. Every family who can afford it likes to buy a little treat after the reaping. For surviving another year.

Heaving a sigh, I follow my mother out of the bakery. She locks the door behind us. My father and brothers have long since left for the square.

My mother and I trudge along in silence. I resist the urged to hug her, or hold her hand. She does the same. It's not a long walk to the square where I split from my mother. "I love you," she whispers. I think I may have heard wrong, but I reply in kind. "I love you, too." This may very well be the last time my mother expresses any affection for me, Come to think of it, it may be the first, too.

I am herded in the roped off area were the other sixteen-year-old boys are. My friends nod in greeting. Their usual cockiness has evaporated. I know they're all silently calculating their chances of being reaped. I find myself doing the same.

I focus on the boys reaping ball up on the makeshift stage that is set up in front of the Justice Building. We're closer to the stage this year, being older. Suddenly I wish I were twelve and not able to just make out a name written in meticulous handwriting in the transparent ball. _Peeta Mellark. _It's all the way at the bottom, but that gives me no comfort.

My muffin is threatening to make a reappearance when the clock strikes two. Mayor Undersee stands and approaches the podium on stage.

He makes the usual, required speech about the history of Panem, the reason for the Hunger Games, but I'm not listening. My eyes rove the stage. There are three chairs behind the podium. One is occupied by Effie Trinket who is clad in a spring green suit for the occasion, but the other is empty. Effie glances around nervously, her freakish Capitol hair glinting in the sun. She has it dyed pink this year – or maybe it's a wig.

The mayor reads off the list of victors Twelve has had in the past seventy-four years of Hunger Games. Actually, I'm not even sure you can really call it a list.

"The late Leila Morris and Haymitch Abernathy."

I'm just thinking maybe Haymitch should be seated in that third chair, when he clambers up on stage and collapses unceremoniously into it. He's drunk. Very drunk. But the crowd applauds anyway. He looks confused for a moment, and then tries so give Effie Trinket a hug. She squeals and fights off his hands.

Haymitch, trying to direct attention elsewhere, introduces Effie Trinket, who flounces up to the podium.

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever _in your favor!" Effie says this every year. I'm not sure if it's supposed to be humorous. I'll bet they're rolling on the floor in the Capitol. The funny thing is that Effie's hair is slowly slipping off her head. No one is laughing.

Effie goes on to say what an honor it is to be here, drawing kid's names from the reaping ball, sending them to almost certain death. Her speech is very superficial, barely differing from the one she gave last year.

There is a collective intake of breath as Effie heads over to the girl's reaping ball. "Ladies first!" she announces. She claws around in the bowl for a while before she settles on a suitable slip.

It's silent as the grave as Effie Trinket smoothes the slip of paper. "Primrose Everdeen."

My stomach does a flip. Then another. Then another. Not Primrose. Not the little girl who comes by the bakery with her sister to gaze at the cakes I've iced.

Looking more delicate than ever, Primrose walks stiffly up to the stage. _She's only twelve. She's only twelve, _I think. But she's from the Seam. She might not look it, with those blue eyes and blonde hair like the merchant kids, but she's from the Seam. She couldn't be protected.

The crowd's murmuring angrily, when soundly a someone cries out. "Prim!" The crowd parts like the red sea for Moses. Katniss strides through the gap, barring her sister's way with her arm just before she reaches the stage. My stomach does another somersault, along with my heart.

"I volunteer!" Katniss gasps. "I volunteer as tribute!"

There is unconcealed confusion on stage. No one's volunteered as tribute in Twelve for so long, the particulars of the protocol have been long since forgotten.

"Lovely!" exclaims Effie Trinket. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um…" She trails off looking to Mayor Undersee.

"What does it matter?" he says. He's looking at Katniss with a pained expression. "What does it matter?" he repeats. "Let her come forward."

Prim is being silent about her sister's intervention, not does she approve of it. She's shaking uncontrollably, sobbing and shrieking, and has latched onto her sister's leg. "No, Katniss! No! You can't go!"

"Prim, let go," I hear Katniss command. Her expression is even, though it's easy to tell she's fighting back tears. "Let go!" she says more firmly.

Gale comes up behind Katniss and pries Primrose off her sister. Gale murmurs something unsteadily to Katniss. Prim is still thrashing in his arms as he makes his way toward Mrs. Everdeen.

"Well, bravo!" Effie exclaims as Katniss mounts the steps. "What's your name?"

"Katniss Everdeen."

"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we?" This is sick. "Come one everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!"

No one claps. No one is sick enough to. The only sound to be heard is Primrose, sobbing in her mother's arms.

Someone raises three middle fingers to their lips. Then the whole crowd is imitating this gesture. They hold their hands out to Katniss. This gesture is barely used in our district. It means good-bye to someone you love.

In the midst of this, Haymitch comes staggering across the stage. "Look at her. Look at this one!" He shouts. He swings an arm around Katniss's shoulders. "I like her! Lots of… Spunk!" More than you! More than you!" Haymitch shouts this directly into one of the television cameras.

He's taunting the Capitol. Sure there would have been severe consequences, but just as Mr. Abernathy is opening his mouth to continue, he takes a step off the stage and falls, knocking himself unconscious.

Haymitch is removed on a stretcher and Effie tries to get things back on track. "What an exciting day!" she gushes. Her wigs is completely askew. "But more excitement to come! It's time to choose out boy tribute!" She crosses the stage to the boys' reaping ball, on hand on her head, and pluck the slip from the top of pile. Before my heart had time to speed up, she's reading the name.

"Peeta Mellark." My heart drops to my feet.

* * *

><p><strong>Yeah. That's it! For now... I kind of complied chapters 1 and 2. I hope you liked it a lot! I'll update as much as I can! Review, please! Even if you just want to insult me, it's welcome! XD<br>NOW YOU WILL REVIEW YOU THE CRAZY REVIEWMONSTER WILL EAT YOUR COOKIES! AND THEN YOU!**

**-Seastar**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hello! I finished this chapter really fast. It's extremely fun to write this. I hope you like this chapter. There's more to come!**

* * *

><p>I blink several times. Have my ears deceived me? My feet start moving before I even get my bearings. The blood has completely drained from my face, leaving me lightheaded and dizzy.<p>

I know shock and horror plays across my features for a moment as I process the implications of being drawn and tossed in the Hunger Games, but I fight to keep a poker face. I am being thrown into an arena with twenty-four other tributes, one of them being Katniss Everdeen. I don't want to kill her. Scratch that, I _can't _kill her. I can't kill anyone. It goes against human nature. I realize that I can't come back from these Games.

My gut twists painfully as I mount the stage. My brother doesn't rush forward to volunteer for me. Not that I expected him to. I look to where he was standing, but he's made his way over to where the rest of my family is huddled, clutching each other's hands, watching me helplessly. Even my mother looks shaken.

The mayor has started to read the long, boring Treaty of Treason, which he is required by the Capitol to do, but I'm not listening. I'm mulling over my predicament. The sooner I start strategizing the better.

I'm thinking that maybe I can make it home from these Games alive without killing anyone, beginning to formulate the outline of plan, when the mayor finishes his speech. He motions for Katniss and me to shake hands. Katniss's is cold as ice. I look into her eyes; the same one's that looked into mine imploringly on the day with the bread. The one's that look just like her father's. Suddenly, I recall that he was killed in a mining explosion. I remember that day when we I was eleven and the mining alarm went off during lunch. That was around the time Stephen stopped coming to trade with my father. I try to give her hand a reassuring squeeze.

The national anthem of Panem begins to play. I turn back to face the crowd. A few of my friends have broken down; several of them have their heads in their hands. I can't even bear to look at my family again. Katniss's mother and sister have been joined by a woman and three other kids who are sobbing as well. As soon as the anthem ends, we are whisked away.

I can't hold back the tears that flood my eyes as we're directed by Peacekeepers into the Justice Building. My nose is running by the time I'm left alone. I'm in a room – a very nice room with thick carpets and velvet-cushioned furniture. My father comes in with Aaron. Both are red-eyed. I sniff repeatedly, but I start to sob anyway.

"I'm so sorry, Peeta," Aaron whispers. "I never thought this could have happened…" He gives me a hug. My father piles on.

"Son. I don't know what to say." My father has nothing to prove to me, though. I know he loves me unconditionally.

I swallow past a lump in my throat. "I love you. Both of you," I say.

"I love you too, Peeta," my father says.

"Me, too," Aaron say. "Try and come back?"

I nod, lip trembling.

After my father and Aaron vacate, my mother and Cole come in.

Cole runs up and throws his arms around me. I can tell how glad he is that it was me, not him, who got reaped. My mother hangs back until I peel myself off Cole. She comes and sits next to me.

"Well, at least this year we have some chance of winning," she says. She kisses me on the cheek. "I'm sorry Peeta."

I hug my mother. "I love you, mom." My mother nods. She's so horribly insincere, so terrible at expressing her feelings, that it brings a new round of tears. I am about to go into an arena and fight to the death for the Capitol's entertainment, and I can count on my fingers the number of times my mother has offered me any condolence for anything.

She finally softens and begins to stroke my hair. The Peacekeepers appear at the door and my mom and brother leave. Several of my friends come in to say their final good-byes, but none of their visits will leave a lasting impression. When the last of my visitors leave, I'm left to ponder whether my mother really loved me my whole life, or if she took me for granted. As just another mouth to feed.

They don't allow me much time to reflect on my life, though, because five minutes later, I'm being prodded into a car, and driven to the train station. I've never been in a car – I doubt anyone besides the mayor and his family ever have – and it's strange to watch the scenery go by at such a rapid pace. A wagon could never achieve this speed.

It's a short ride to the train station. The platform is buzzing with television cameras and crews. I think about trying to conceal my red-rimmed eyes and runny nose, but I figure it's all or nothing. Maybe I could pull a Johanna Mason. She acted weak in the interviews and during training, but it turned out she was a ruthless killer. I rephrase: Maybe I could pull a Johanna Mason without the ruthless killing.

I catch sight of Katniss. She is as steely-eyed and pokerfaced as ever. Apparently she's going into this thing with the intention of winning.

We're forced to stand in the doorway of the train for a while we're photographed, but we make up for lost time. The second we've boarded, the train is on the move.

It's a bit disconcerting for a moment; it's easy to tell that you're moving as you're standing still, but your feet aren't flying out from under you.

I'm ushered into my quarters. The room is even fancier than the one in the Justice Building back home. There is a bedroom, a dressing area, and a bathroom with hot running water. My own bathroom. This could only be a dream. I pinch myself several times. If only it were.

I know I should be trying to work out a plan, not focusing on the luxuries I am permitted as tribute. It's like getting a pig ready for slaughter – you give it all the food it can eat so it gets fat, then you kill it. That's what the Capitol is doing to us, essentially. But I need a shower. Plan-making is next on my priority list.

Just as I am pulling a towel out of one of the drawers, Haymitch Abernathy comes in, a bottle of liquor in hand.

"So," he says, sitting on the bed. He stares at me for a moment, waiting for response.

"So," I repeat. This is a bit awkward.

"What's the plan, boy? You know it's my job to get you out of the arena alive."

"I don't really have a plan right now. Except that I don't want to kill anyone. I don't think I can."

Haymitch snorts. "In other words, you don't mean to get out alive?" he raises an eyebrow.

"Maybe I can," I say hopefully. "But I'd rather the victor be someone else."

"Well, at least you're resigned to your fate," Haymitch says. "If anyone asks, I'm taking a nap." He leaves, upending the bottle as he shuts the door.

I sigh. Shower first, then plan.

Climbing into the shower, I encounter an assortment of buttons, none of which are labeled. I decide the green one looks most promising, so I press it and warm water cascades down my back. Various other buttons release a spray of soap and perfumes. It takes a few minutes, but I've mastered the Capitol's shower system.

Wrapped in a towel, I rummage around in the drawers until I find something suitable to wear. I've selected a blue suit that makes me look too much like my father. Examining myself in the mirror, I find my red, puffy eyes have returned to normal. They're very blue again, almost startling.

Effie comes to retrieve me for supper a few minutes later. I've never eaten on a train before. She points down a narrow, wobbly corridor and tells me the dining room is just beyond the door.

I take a seat. The only one in here is me. I suppose Effie has gone to get Katniss. But shouldn't Haymitch be here as well? He's our mentor, after all. I'm pretty sure that we're each supposed to be appointed a mentor of our own, but since Haymitch Abernathy is the only live victor of Twelve, we'll have to share.

The door slides open, and Effie Trinket reappears with Katniss behind her.

"Where's Haymitch?" Effie inquires cheerfully.

"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take nap," I say.

"Well, it's been and exhausting day," Effie allows. She looks relieved as she scrapes her chair out from beneath the table.

The dinner comes in courses. I'm glad I've had only muffin for breakfast. I can't believe that was this morning. I think of my family. Are they still having dinner with the Cartwrights? Somehow, I doubt it. I hope Katniss's family has enough food out there in the Seam.

"At least you two have decent manners," Effie remarks at the end of the main course. "The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion."

Last year, both our tributes were from the Seam. They probably figured they'd never see such an extravagant feast again and threw manners to the wind. I don't really think much about etiquette; I just eat the way that I was taught. I do wonder where Katniss learned, though.

I glance up at her. There's a devious glint in her eye. She picks up a turkey leg and begins gnawing on it. Then wipes her hands on the table cloth when the meal is over. Effie whimpers.

I settle back in my chair, feeling at least ten pounds heavier. I think I've eaten more today than I have in my entire life. Katniss is looking a little green around the gills, but Effie delicately wipes her lips with a napkin. I wonder how her waist is so small if she eats like this at every meal.

We're led into another plush train compartment to watch the recap of the other reaping ceremonies. The word _live _flashes in the corner of the screen, but the only people who could ever watch a reaping live are people in the Capitol, because they are exempt from the Games.

I carefully examine the faces and physiques of the kids I'll be p against in arena, memorizing each of their names. I think I may have a physical advantage over most of them. But Cato from Two and Thresh from Eleven might pose some competition. Not that it matters.

A twelve-year-old is drawn in District 11. Unlike Primrose in Twelve, nobody lunges forward to volunteer for her. She'll be dead in a day once the Games start, and her initial expression shows that she knows it.

Lastly, the District 12 ceremony is shown. I see a replay of what I was present for, what I was part of. I study my face as I take my place on stage. If I were Cato or Thresh, I would have already pegged myself as a weakling. I fight back a laugh as Haymitch plummets off the stage. It wasn't all that funny at the time, but now, it's hilarious.

Katniss and I shake hands, the anthem plays, and the program ends.

Effie is mourning the state of her wig. "Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior."

I laugh. It's obvious, but I feel like I have to say it. "He was drunk. He's drunk every year."

"Everyday," Katniss adds. She's even smirking a little.

"Yes," Effie snaps dangerously, "How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is you lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Hay can well be the difference between your life and death!" I can tell this meant to shake us but I can't pretend I had much invested in Haymitch anyway.

At that moment, Haymitch stumbles into the compartment. "I miss supper? He slurs. Then he vomits on the expensive furniture and falls in the mess.

"So laugh away!" Effie hops around the puddle of vomit and vacate the room.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay. That's it for now. Review! :)<strong>

**-Seastar**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hi! Wow, it's been a really long time since I've updated, it's been so busy! I worked on this chapter while I was out of town, so it required a lot of tweaking, but it was really fun, and an awesome cure of r bordem during that long car ride :) I pretty happy with it, despite a few reservations... This chapter kind of took a long time; the last two were easy because they were pretty mainly comprised of quotes from the book, and Peeta's whereabouts were dictated by him being in Katniss's presence... This was harder. But I hope you like it!**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Hunger Games, nor any of the characters. There are quite a few quotes from the book in this chapter. I forgot to put the disclaimer in last time. Oops. **

* * *

><p>I swallow hard. As if it weren't already hard enough to keep my supper down, now a grown man is rolling around in his own vomit at my feet. I exchange a glance with Katniss. I'm not sure which makes my stomach take a tumble: her gaze or Haymitch.<p>

Disgusting as it is, there's no way around it; What Effie said, about Haymitch being our best chance of survival in the arena? It's true.

I take hold of Haymitch's left arm, while Katniss takes his right. Together, we haul him upright.  
>"I tripped?" Haymitch asks woozily. "Smells bad." He's darn right it smells bad. The pungent odor of spirits and bile set my stomach roiling again.<p>

Haymitch passes a hand over his nose, smudging his face with smelly vomit. "Let's get you back to your room," I say. "Clean you up a bit."

Once in his compartment, we can't seem to get Haymitch on his bed, so we drag him into the bathtub instead. I press the green button and the shower starts to spray. He doesn't even react.

"It's okay. I'll take it from here," I say to Katniss. She looks grateful. I'm thinking that I might be gaining some favor with Haymitch by doing this. But his half-hearted groan tells me that he won't have any recollection of this when he wakes. I'll save Katniss the trouble, anyway.

"Alright." Katniss is lingering in the doorway. She's very pretty, with her long hair and glittering Seam-grey eyes. "I can send one of the Capitol people to help you." There are a lot of them, probably just waiting to be summoned.  
>"No," I say, "I don't want them." It's the truth. Although I'd rather not clean an old man covered in vomit by myself, I don't want the Capitol's help with this, or anything else. I don't want their servants waiting on me. It's wrong. The attendants on this train, they probably have families of their own.<p>

Not once has a person in the Capitol stopped to question where their feasts and clothing, their heat, their fancy electronics came from, I bet. Not once have they ever thought about anyone but themselves.

I stop thinking of the attendants as Capitol people after that. They're as victimized as Katniss and I are. I scrub Haymitch down, trying to expose as little skin as possible, deep in thought.

I consider my life as a child in District 12. Living in town was relatively easy. We usually had enough food to steer clear of tesserae. I wasn't aware of how hard the kids from them Seam had it until I was about ten or eleven. I guess I was old enough then, mature enough to handle the hardship all around me.

I wonder if that's the way it is in the Capitol. Like children, they are too enraptured in their own little world with all the trinkets and baubles they could ever want, to be bothered by the rest of the world. That's what they are. Jaded children.

It takes a couple of cold sprays in the face, but Haymitch eventually comes to his senses long enough to dry off and put on some new clothes. I leave the dirty ones in a sopping pile by the bathroom door. There's only so much one person can take, I decide.

I stroll down the corridors to my compartment, not making any haste. A plan. I need a plan. Haymitch has made it pretty clear that if I don't kill anyone, I can't win. And if I don't win, the next best person is… Katniss. Can I really ensure her victory? No, but I can do everything possible to aid it.

I lay in my bed, stating up at the ceiling, as if it holds all the answers I need. I think about my family and friends back in Twelve. Their tears as they told me good-bye. My bother's plea for me to come home. I'd like nothing more to return. My mother – I can't bear to think about her. Not when things were just beginning to get better between us. It's all I can do to fight back tears, but if I'm going to cry, I'd better do it now.  
>It's been a long day, and I can't ward off sleep for long. So I probe the drawers for sleepwear and crawl under the covers.<p>

_I dream I'm back in District Twelve that night. My family is happy. We're laughing over dinner. The Everdeens are sitting at our table, too, but their not laughing. Their expressions are somber. There's an empty chair beside me.  
><em>_"Who're we waiting for?" I ask. Everybody's expressions darken.  
><em>_"No one, Peeta," my brother says icily. "You couldn't save Katniss in the arena. She's dead."  
><em>_Everyone's scowling at me. As I look to the chair next to me, Katniss flickers into view. "Peeta," she whispers. "Save me."  
><em>_I reach for her hand, but it's as if it's made of mist…_

I jolt upright. Taking a cursory glance at the room, my brain flounders. Then I remember where I am. Why I'm here. The dream had shaken me, the prospect going back to District 12 without Katniss. She would haunt me for the rest of my life.

The curtains are still open, and I see the scenery flying by. I yank the window open – it's so muggy in the room – and try to poke my head out. My face is met by a painful sting. A force field. So the tributes don't try to escape the train in the dead of night. Not that they'd make it off alive – this locomotive can achieve speeds of two-hundred miles per hour.

My meaningless train of thought drifts back to Katniss. The Games. I tell myself that I shouldn't be thinking about them... But there's point in delaying. No better time than the present, when the end of my life is so close at hand.  
>My best bet right now is to save Katniss. She actually has something to live for. A family to feed, and Gale. I'm not sure if she feels the same way about him as he does about her. Maybe she doesn't.<br>I feel something in the pit of my stomach. I think it might be motion sickness, so I sit down and put head between my legs. It doesn't go away. Effie Trinket bursts through my door. "Time to get up! Today's going to be a big, big day!"

I take a shower and brush my teeth (my breath smells like a zoo). I'm thinking about Katniss. Strangely, that thing I feel in my in the pit of my stomach escalates almost painfully when I do. I've felt this way before, to some degree, about a girl back home. The feeling was mutual, and I feel like I'm betraying her somehow_. Do not think of Katniss. Do not think of May_. Still, I can't shake that feeling.

Haymitch is seated at the table in the dining car when I slide the door open. Effie is brewing some coffee at a little table in the corner – or she's watching an attendant brew her coffee.

Haymitch looks at me. "Sit, boy," he commands.

A huge platter of food is set in front of me. There are pitchers of various beverages in the center of the table. I recognize orange juice – my mother likes to get it once in a while, and even so, the name wouldn't be hard to guess, seeing its orange and its juice. There's a carafe of coffee – I'm not sure why Effie is having someone brew her coffee in the corner. Perhaps she likes it with an extra does of cheerfulness to get her through the day.  
>There's something on the table that I don't recognize, though. It' steaming and froth has gathered on its surface. I take the mug from the side of my plate and pour myself a cup. It smells like chocolate icing – the kind only the mayor can afford in Twelve, and sometimes the Peacekeepers. The kind my father only makes at special request.<br>I take a tentative sip. It's hot and burns my lips, but I've never tasted anything like it, so I take a long draft. It's sweet. A little too sweet. It's like chocolate icing had been melted into the cup with extra sugar.

"What is this?" I ask.

"Hot chocolate," Haymitch replies. He's drinking juice, but he's watering it down with some kind of smelly spirit. I know I should complain, but I don't. It's better than straight wine, I suppose.

"How's that plan coming along?" Haymitch asks. Maybe he's actually a bit concerned about my survival.  
>"I want to protect Katniss," I say, wolfing down some eggs and sausage.<p>

Haymitch raises an eyebrow. "And why is that?"

"I –" I hesitate, but then decide there's no point in keeping secrets right now. I'll be dead soon, anyway. "I couldn't handle going home knowing I could have saved her. And I think I'm in love with her."  
>This catches Haymitch off guard. He put down his glass and looks taken aback for a moment. Then he bursts out laughing.<p>

As I cast my eyes downward, Effie comes to my defense. "This is no laughing matter. You of all people should know, Haymitch, what's it's like to lose someone you care about." I wasn't expecting that.

Pain flickers in Haymitch's eyes. He takes a swig straight from the small bottle of spirits. "What do you mean, Effie?" I ask.

"The Capitol killed my whole family because of something I did in the arena," Haymitch snaps.

So Haymitch won his Games, and the Capitol still killed his family. _Why?_ I want to ask, but pressing the issue further doesn't seem appropriate right now.

Haymitch hiccups "Don't get attached to anyone, is my advice," he says quietly. "Especially not her, not now."  
>I look back down at my plate. "Okay," I say, trying to figure out whether or not to accept this. If I help Katniss in the arena, will the Capitol kill her like they did Haymitch's family? No, if Katniss wins, the Capitol can't reach her. But what about her family? What about <em>my<em> family?

Katniss shoves the door open. "Sit down, sit down!" Haymitch says, waving her over. I think his surreptitious glare is a signal to drop my mood.

Effie is muttering to herself as she leaves the compartment. I realize there's a roll grasped in my hand still. I rip off a piece and dip it in the hot chocolate. It's not as sweet when it's soaked into the bread.

As a Capitol person serves her, Katniss looks inquiringly at her steaming mug. "They call it hot chocolate," I tell her. "It's good."

I watch her as she takes a sip, and then drains the whole cup. I smile. She looks so helpless...

_No,_ I remind myself, _I can't think like that anymore._ But if protecting Katniss isn't my plan anymore, then what is?

"So you're supposed to give us advice," Katniss says after about ten minutes of silence. She looks at Haymitch like he's a specimen lower than a human being.

"Here's some advice," Haymitch says. An edge has crept into his voice probably from whatever he was drinking. I wonder why he hasn't told Katniss what I've told him. "Stay alive."

I've no reason to be angry, on the contrary, I should probably be thanking Haymitch for not spilling the beans about my plan. Somehow, I don't think Katniss would really take well to being protected.

But what he's said has rubbed me the wrong way. "That's very funny," I say. In a barely controlled motion, my hand flies out and knocks the glass out of his hand. It shatters. "Only not to us." Teach him to laugh at me.

What I'm not expecting is retaliation. Haymitch studies me for a moment. Then, he sends a blow at my jaw and strikes me so hard that I fall from my chair, narrowly avoiding the broken glass. He's stronger than he looks.  
>Next thing I know, Katniss has her knife in the table in between Haymitch's fingers. I half expect him to hit her, too, but he sits back and squints at us.<p>

"Well, what's this?" he says. "Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"

I pull myself up and put some ice on my jaw from Katniss's breakfast plate.

"No," Haymitch objects. "Let the bruise show. The audience will think you've mixed up with another tribute before you've even made it to the arena."

"That's against the rules," I point out, though I can tell Haymitch is trying to help me out, so I remove ice from my face.

"Only if the catch you. That bruise will say you fought. You weren't caught, even better." Haymitch directs his attention at Katniss. "Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?"

Without a word, Katniss wrenches the knife from the table and hurls it at the wall. It sticks, wobbling.  
>I'm impressed - if only for a moment. I notice the tip of the blade has caught in between two wall panels, giving it a solid place to rest.<p>

"Stand over there. Both of you." Haymitch nods to the center of the room. We both stalk over. He circles us, giving us prods, examining our muscles and faces. "Well, you're not entirely hopeless," he says after yanking on my hair a fee times like he expects it to come off like a wig. "Seem fit." He's right; we're both fairly in fairly good shape and we're both good-looking, to some degree.

"Once the stylists get a hold of you, you'll be attractive enough." I can't disagree with what he's saying, even if it is somewhat degrading. The best-looking tributes usually have more sponsors in the arena. And sponsors are pretty much imperative, from what I've seen in the Games.

"All right," Haymitch continues, "I'll make a deal with you: You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you."

_Done._ "Fine," I say.  
>Katniss shrugs in agreement. "So help us, she says "When we're in the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone-"<p>

"One thing at a time," Haymitch cuts off. "In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of you stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist."

"But-" Katniss begins, only to be cut off again. I'm about to object as well.

"No buts. Don't resist." Haymitch has a slight smile on his face as he retrieves his bottle of spirits and leaves the car, most likely reminiscing about what his stylists did to him in his Games.

The train goes into a tunnel, momentarily shrouding the car in semi-darkness. We must be going through the mountains. They're part of the reason the districts lost the war. I remember learning about it in school. The rebels had to climb the mountains to reach the Capitol. Since they were so high up, they became easy pickings for the Capitol air force.

I feel a little bit claustrophobic in this tunnel. There is a pressing silence in the car. I imagine what it must have been like for the rebels way back in the Dark Days. Trying to defeat the Capitol. They must have been fighting desperately. Did they foresee the Capitol condemning future generations to something like the Hunger Games?  
>The train slows to a halt and light rushes in to dispel the darkness. Katniss and I both make a beeline for the window, to see what we only ever thought we would see on television. Candy-colored skyscrapers and pink and purple street stretch as far as the eye can see. The cameras couldn't have accurately captured the glowing air of splendor here. Today would be the best day of my life - if I weren't headed for my doom.<p>

The colors are a bit too bright for my taste, so I direct my eyes at the crowd. People are pointing; cameras are trained at our faces as people begin to recognize us. Katniss steps away from the window.

I stand there, gaping at the bizarre coloring of people's skin and their wacky sense of fashion. I let the camera catch plenty of the bruise on my face.

From the corner of my eye, a see Katniss staring at me. I shrug. "One of them may be rich." I'm going to need plenty of sponsors to get her through these Games.

Effie and Haymitch find us as we're exiting the train, but as soon as we set foot on the Capitol pavement, we're all wrenched apart.

A Peacekeeper has my arm and camera flashes are going off in my face when I hear Haymitch in my ear. "Don't resist," he reminds me again. "Let your stylists take the wheel." I was initially willing to go with the flow, but Haymitch's warnings are getting me worried. He acts like my stylists are eccentric. Maybe I'm starting to think they are.

I allow the Peacekeeper to lead me into a big building - the Training Center I'm told. The arena is just below it. A new one is built each year for the Games. Afterwards, they become tourist hot-spots, I guess. I can't imagine why anyone would want to visit the place where another human being died, but Capitol people relish in it. Perhaps they just don't think of the people from the districts as human.

I notice the strange decor as I'm prodded down what seems like the two-hundredth corridor, a long hall. The walls are neon colors and portraits of President Snow and people, who I assume are his family, hang from the ceiling on golden ropes. I've been handed off to several Peacekeepers at this point; this one doesn't seem to be feeling very patient. I can't imagine why there would be Peacekeepers in the Capitol. Maybe their shipped in special for the Games.

I'm shoved into a big room on one of the upper floors of the building. Three people are conversing in the corner. Even with their backs turned, I can tell they're Capitol-freaks. They whirl around when the swings shut with a loud groan and rush forward. There's a man - he could only be about two years older than me - and two women.  
>The man extends his hand. "You must be Peeta, from District 12. I'm Rubio." He has a gigantic, glittering grin. "The three of us make up your prep team."<p>

I nod. Behind Rubio, the two women are wriggling with excitement.

One of them rushes forward. "I'm Gloria," she says, "we're going to make you beautiful!"

The other bounds up. "I'm Gretchen." She smiles. I smile back. They're all quite attractive, by District 12 standards, despite their strange sense of style. Gretchen has bright, lemon-yellow hair, and Rubio's skin has a washed-out purplish tinge to it. I can't see anything abnormal in Gloria until she turns her head. Her earlobes have been stretched big enough to poke a finger through with room to spare. All of them are garbed in weird tunics and robes.

I notice another person, a _normal-looking_ person, is now standing in the corner my prep team occupied just a moment earlier. There's a table over there, and the person seems to be scribbling in a notebook of sorts. The person doesn't turn around, but walks out of the room.

"Who's that?" I ask Gloria, pointing.

"Portia, your stylist," she says, handing me a robe. "She says she won't even look at you until you've been prepped."

"She thinks I'm ugly, then?"

Gloria laughs. "Oh, no, of course not! She said you're quite attractive. Now, we need to get started."  
>I'm instructed to strip in a room off this one and put the robe on. Self-consciously, I come back into the room. I realize how cold the big white room is.<p>

My team swarms me. I'm pushed down on a long table. I'm not allowed to complain, but I've screamed myself hoarse by the time they're done with my left leg. After a while, I realize hollering doesn't seem to be lessening the pain, so I quit while I still have some of my voice.

After I'm bald enough for my prep team's liking, they scrub me down with a grimy, powdery soap that removes the years of accumulated dirt that I never has the patience to scrub off, which isn't much, but it takes off about half my skin, leaving what's left pink and raw.

My preps babble on about life in the Capitol, and it's becoming clear that these three are the epitome of 'jaded children.' Rubio complains about how Portia made him wash his skin dye out. Gretchen mourns over the loss of her nose ring.

Next comes the "grease". It goes on a nasty greenish and stings like heck. It's slathered all over my body in places I would have never put it myself. My robe has long since been discarded. I feel bad for Katniss, who's undergoing the same treatment, probably. Maybe it's different for a girl.

The lotion ends up soothing my tingling skin. My prep team circles me, grinning, admiring their work. "Wonderful!" Gretchen exclaims. "Portia will be pleased with the way you turned out!" I'm wondering if this is a complement.  
>"I'll get Portia," Rubio says, striding out of the room. I've noticed he's the more <em>reigned in<em> of the three.

Gloria is plucking my eyebrows with tweezers and Gretchen is running a comb through my hair when Rubio reenters the room with a petite young woman behind her. She looks like an ordinary person. She's wearing ordinary clothes, at least, and her hair is an un-dyed dark reddish blonde. The only evidence on her person that she is from the Capitol are her eyes. They're a deep purple, almost passable for blue, but I'm pretty sure they're contact lenses.

Portia steps forward. "Hello, Peeta. I'm your stylist for the Games, Portia." She gives me a hug. She seems very... {mellow}, for someone from the Capitol.

"Let's say you get some clothes on and we eat, eh?" Funny I've completely that I'm standing in front of four relative strangers without a stitch of clothing covering me.

I'm issued another robe, a fluffier one, and even though I want normal clothes, I have to satisfy myself with mental objections. "I've never seen you on television before," I observe aloud. "You're new?"

"Yes," Portia replies, a smile gracing her face. "Cinna, my partner, and I requested District 12. They have a certain flair that's overlooked."

Portia leads me through a door to a sitting area. As she sits, she presses a button. The tabletop opens up and a second platform with our food elevates into its place.

I can't help but stare. This is the way they live in the Capitol? When the rest of the districts are starving to death? Even Portia, who strikes me as very down to earth, seems to take this for granted.

I raise my eyes. Portia is examining me. "Your eyes are a very pretty blue," she notes, leaning forward to brush an eyelash off my cheek. "And your lashes -?" she clucks her tongue. "Anyone here would kill for those."  
>I nod, not in the mood to discuss my long eyelashes.<p>

This doesn't seem to bother Portia. She takes small bites as she explains about the opening ceremonies.  
>"On the route around the City Circle, you know that it's customary to have attire that's in accordance with your district's principal industry. That's coal, in District 12. It's my job to make you memorable."<p>

Right. Coal. District 1 makes luxury items for the Capitol. Seven is lumber. I can't remember the rest right now. I guess Eleven Is agriculture, because, last year, I recall the tributes being dressed up as giant carrots.  
>Since Twelve, as Portia said, is coal, I guess I'll be dressed as a coal miner. Or a lump of coal...<p>

"You've probably noticed the... lack of creativity previous stylists have given to this particular task. Last year, the tributes were presented as miners, covered in coal dust and naked..."  
><em>Please be the coal lump, please.<em>

Portia shudders. "That's probably why Snow canned them. Cinna, my counterpart and I were thinking that, rather than focusing on the coal _mining_, that we would focus on the coal itself. And what do we do with coal?"

"We burn it..." I'm not sure quite sure what she's getting at.  
>"Exactly!" Portia exclaims.<p>

So they want to... _Burn_ me?

After lunch, Portia gets set with my outfit. It's comfortable and fashionable, yet functional - so says Portia. There a black unitard, black boots, and a headdress with a flowing, flame-colored cape. It may be functional, but it looks _ridiculous._

Portia smoothes my cape, stroking the fabric. "Beautiful," she whispers lovingly to the cloth. "You look amazing. Think - Peeta, the Burning Boy!" That's a terrible nickname. "I'm not sure you'll be in the spotlight, though," Portia continues. "I've seen the girl in her costume, Katniss? She's breathtaking."

"She is beautiful," I agree. Even without the prissy Capitol clothes.

Rubio comes at my face with a powder puff, but I hold a hand up to stop him. I know he intends to cover my bruise.

"Haymitch, my mentor, he said leave the bruise." I don't explain further, sure that Rubio won't understand. He just shrugs and drops the puff back in the powder, stirring up a cloud of dust.

As soon as my overall appearance is satisfactory, I'm led into the room across the hall.

Portia immediately starts to chatter with Cinna and the preps are squealing about our outfits.

We're all ushered to the lowest floor of the Remake Center. It smells like a farm, and for good reason. Tributes are being helped onto chariot with four horses each. District 12 has coal black mares. The coal theme is becoming a bit irritating. How stereotypical to think everyone in Twelve are miners. I never thought about it, watching the Games back home, but the horses are trained so well that no one holds their reins.

I'm examining the other tributes outfits - none of them are dressed exactly alike, I think begrudgingly, and they don't look like they're going to be set on fire, either- when Katniss speaks up.

"What do you think?" she asks in a whisper. "About the fire?"

"I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine," I say. I realize I'm gnashing my teeth, and my heart is working double-time.

"Deal," Katniss whispers back.

"I know we promised Haymitch we'd do exactly what he said, but I don't think he considered this angle_." Or maybe he just really wants us to die_, I add in my head.

"Where is Haymitch, anyway?" I ask, looking around. Our mentor is nowhere in sight, but I spot Finnick Odair, who won his Hunger Games a few years back, hovering around his tributes from District 4. "Isn't he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?"

"With all that alcohol in him, it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame, Katniss replies with a somber expression. Then I crack a nervous smile, and we both dissolve into giggles. I guess both our nerves have finally cracked under the pressure.

The anthem begins blaring out of the massive speakers and the one by one, the other district chariots start to file out of the stable. Twelve is last.

Just as Eleven's chariot is pulling out, Cinna hops onto the cart, carrying a torch. My breathing quickens.

* * *

><p><strong>This is a really lame place to end, I'm sorry! I'm kind of really trying to make Peeta's experience a little different from Katniss's without straying from the storyline... I'm really sorry about any inaccuracies. *Sigh* I feel like I'm failing in the "give Peeta his own inner voice" department. It's really hard :(( Anywho, review, subscirbe, whatever. XD Yeah. As a little side note, I'm running purely on adrenaline and inspiration for the Vitamin String Quartet. They are SO AMAZING. LOL :)) check 'em out. <strong>

**-Seastar97**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Well, here we are! Chapter four! I had a good time writing this one, but the next one is going to be even better! It's been a while since I've updated; I just haven't had the time or paitience to sit down and write :) Oh well. Review!**

**Edit: Haha. Yeah, I messed up. So, after a little revision, it's all good. I just left out the part when Cinna shows Peeta the roof. Threw a little spin on it, too, so READ. XD, please?**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 4<strong>_

"Here we go, then," Cinna announces. Portia told you this is synthetic?" he adds to me in an undertone. She didn't, but the reassurance isn't doing anything to calm my nerves.  
>Once the flames spread, there's only a slight tickling sensation. I'm sure I look stupid, but Katniss looks beautiful.<br>Cinna has his hand under her chin. "It works." He breathes a sigh of relief. "Remember, chin up. Smiles. They'll love you!"  
>Cinna hops off the chariot.<br>A second later, he seems to remember something and shouts, but I can't hear him over the cheers and music.  
>Katniss squints and Cinna shouts again, gesturing.<p>

"What's he saying?" Katniss asks, squinting at me for a moment. I probably look like and idiot, but she looks positively fabulous.  
>"I think he said for us to hold hands," I say, snatching up Katniss's with a little too much eager enthusiasm. Cinna gives us a thumbs-up and the horses move forward with a jolt.<br>Somehow, I'm not giddy with nervousness anymore. The initial fear of being set on fire has past. I'm standing here, for all the Capitol to see, holding hands with Katniss. I actually put on a smile as we cross over the threshold of the huge stable doors.

The first thing I see when we roll out is the big screen which displays the tributes as they exit the stable. Well, I do see the screen, but my main focus, the main source of my shock, is my appearance.

My jaw goes slack, but I catch myself before it hits the bottom of the chariot. I don't look like an idiot. Far from it, actually. The flames, like the glow from a flickering candle, lights our faces from beneath. I've only looked this good in my dreams. There's no doubt about it – we are Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. I'll never be mistaken for Blake, the boy whose parents own the bookstore in town, again.

Katniss lift her chin, and I follow her lead, waving timidly to the crowds. They're screaming out our names, chanting "District Twelve! District Twelve!"

Katniss warms up to the immediately, blowing kisses, catching roses. She stumbles now and again, but seeing as she's clutching my hand like there's no tomorrow, she's not really in any danger of falling of the chariot. It has happened before, and let me tell you, my mother thought it was a riot.

"Katniss, Katniss! Peeta, Peeta!" I don't think either of us will ever forget this moment. Portia and Cinna have outdone themselves. I start to feel unsteady with gratitude. Katniss loosens her grip on my hand.

"No, don't let go of me," I say, catching her fingers as they start to slide out of mine. "Please, I might fall out of this thing."

"Okay," Katniss answers, looking skeptically at the other tributes. So she's noticed. Among all twenty-four of the tributes, we're the only ones who are standing stiff-limbed beside each other. We're actually conversing, something I've never seen any other tributes do.

_This is what Haymitch was talking about,_ I realize. You're not helping yourself by getting attached to anyone. On the contrary, in fact; you're making yourself more vulnerable than ever.

But this is different – I think. Maybe I will end up killing Katniss in the arena. If it means my survival. When the time comes, I'll kill. If it will ensure victory for either Katniss or myself. Hopefully it will never come to that.

The chariot skids to a halt as we fill the final spot in the ring that is the City Circle. The multitude of Capitol citizens – piled in front of windows, on balconies, in front of buildings – is absolutely astounding. And every single eye is fixed on us. Even those of the other tributes, who are shooting us less than complimentary looks. There's a little girl, though, from District 11, who just looks fascinated, not really contemptuous.

As the president of Panem, President Snow makes the traditionally boring official welcome speech, I can't help but smirking to myself, though I'm nervous. The "District Twelve!" chants are just now fading out, and the camera, instead of cutting away to the faces of the others, seems glued to the faces of flaming tributes of Twelve. But by the way the tributes from Districts 1, 2, 3, and 4 are glaring at us, it's easy to tell that they would like nothing more than to slit our throats here and now.

Then again, they are the Careers of these Games. The ones who have been training all their lives for this moment. The Capitol's pets, the glory-seekers. They look forward to the chance to prove their honor, their worth, by going into an arena, killing innocent people, and coming out on top. Cold-hearted killers.

The anthem's blaring brings me to my senses, and the carts begin to pull back into the Training Center. Prep teams storm their tributes, some shouting disparaging things, but only praise can be heard from Rubio, Gretchen, and Gloria.

Cinna and Portia help us down from the chariot and Portia sprays something from a can to put out the flames on our capes.

The next thing I know, Katniss is prying her fingers off mine. The blood-flow to my fingers and wrist was cut off so long ago, that I completely forgot that the object of my obsession was clinging to my hand as for dear life. The same way I was clinging to her.

"Thanks for keeping hold of me," I say. "I was getting a little shaky there."

"It didn't show," Katniss assures me expressionlessly.

"I'm they didn't notice anything but you. You should wear flames more often; they suit you." I smile at her, channeling all my emotions into the gesture. _I'm going to protect you in the arena – probably. I'm in love with you – I think. _

Despite the sure lack of affection in the smile, Katniss roll up on the balls of her feet and give me a kiss on the cheek. I grin.

Once in the Training Center, Effie joins us in a big elevator. There are thirteen buttons, one for each district, and also one for the ground floor. I make a big show out of pressing the "12" button. I might be the only one tall enough to reach it without much trouble in the car; Portia and Cinna have stayed behind to dispose of the capes and headdresses; Katniss and Effie are about the same height, and even that might be five or six inches shorter than I am.

Effie is raving about the impression we've made. She says we're the first pair she's had that's "made a splash." She's been talking us up to potential sponsors as well. This is wonderful, as Effie probably knows half the people in the Capitol.

"I've been very mysterious, though,"" she tells us. "Because, of course, Haymitch hasn't bothered to tell me your strategies. But I've done my best with what I've had to work with. How Katniss sacrificed herself for her sister. How you've both successfully struggled to overcome the barbarism of your district." Barbarism? She can't possibly be referring to our abilities to wield a knife and fork correctly. Because _that's really_ going to come in handy in the arena. "Everyone has their reservations, naturally, Effie continues, "you being from the coal district. But I said, and this was very clever of me, I said, well, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to pearls!"

Okay, so maybe she's stretching the truth a bit, but who am I to complain? Coal doesn't turn to anything but crushed coal when pressure is put on it. Graphite is supposed to turn into diamonds, I remember learning in school, but graphite isn't mined in Twelve. It isn't really mined anywhere, since Thirteen was destroyed.

"Unfortunately, I can't seal the sponsor deals for you, says Effie sourly. "Only Haymitch can do that. But don't worry; I'll get him to the table at gunpoint if necessary." I can't help but believe her, when she says that.

Katniss peels off at the first door on the hall at Effie's command. She directs me to the second.

Of course I'm expecting the spaciousness of the room, but my jaw drops anyway at the sheer size of it. How can all this be concealed behind one door? It's the biggest I've seen yet. The bathroom alone is the size of room at home.

In preparation for dinner, I decide to take a shower. I'm thinking I'll have everything in control, but this shower is different from the one on the train, so I decide to just wing it.

Winging it, as it turns out, has to be the worst idea of the century. Once the water is on, I press a button that I'm assuming dispenses shampoo. Instead, it turns on what seems to be a foot massager, effectively making me jump about ten feet in the air. While jumping in the shower may sound fun, let me tell you, when the floor is jiggling around under your feet, it's hard to maintain balance. I'm lucky I didn't end up with a concussion.

Scrabbling for balance, my hand pushes about ten other buttons. By this combination, some rose-scented foam begging squirting from every available opening in the shower. That when I call it quits.

Before I have time to do anything else but dress,

I'm expecting Effie when I unbolt the door, but instead of my pink-haired escort, opening the door reveals Cinna.

"Hello, Peeta," Cinna greets, smiling amiably.

"Hello, Cinna," I say, glancing out in the hall for somebody behind him. "Come in?"

"Oh, no," Katniss's stylist declines. "I've been speaking with Haymitch. Will you step out on the roof for a moment?"

I nod and Cinna leads me to the end of the hallway and opens a door that leads to a case of stairs.

The wind whips my hair into my eyes. It feels nice to be outside again. "Are tributes allowed up here?"

"Yes, of course," Cinna replies, raising his voice over the wind.

"Why? Aren't they afraid they'll try to jump to their deaths instead of facing the arena?"

"I don't think you'd want to take a leap off this roof; it's protected by a force field. "There's a garden over there." He points.

I nod, taking a side-long glance at it. I'm not interested in flowers right now. "So let's cut to the chase," I say bluntly. "What do you want?"

"As I mentioned earlier, I've been talking to Haymitch – about your strategies," Cinna says calmly. "He told me what you said about Katniss."

"Huh?" I rake my hand through my hair, figuring out what he means. "That wasn't something I meant for him to repeat." My feeling about Katniss were conflicted, as of now. Being here gave me the opportunity to reveal how I felt; it also gave me the opportunity to kill her. Right now, I wasn't sure which was more practical. To kill, or not to kill. To love, or not to love. _To be or, not be_, I'd once heard my mother quote. _That is the question. _

"I figured." Cinna smirked grimly. "But think about this: The majority of the Capitol is not dead-set against you; they don't want you to die, they want you to live. It is simply more entertaining to watch you die. But if you had reason to live –" Cinna raised his eyebrows, waiting for me to fill in the blanks.

"They might let me –" _Her? Us? _"— live."

"Exactly. Would the Capitol be gaining favor be killing two lovebirds in the arena? Keep that in mind." Cinna opens the door and starts down the step, headed toward the dining room. The day doesn't seem so dismal after that.

Portia is standing out balcony overlooking the candy-colored city streets when I catch sight of her. As I lean against the railing beside her, she smoothes my hair.

The stylists begin whispering to each other, and I am left out of the hushed conversation. I can guess what they're talking about, though. When Katniss and Effie finally show up, we all seat ourselves.

A young man with a tray offers us each a flute of wine. I take one. I've never had good wine, though my parents had a bottle or two in a cabinet at the bakery and broke it out from time to time, usually after the reaping. Not this year, I guess.

It doesn't taste much finer than the wine my mother bought from Ripper, but this doesn't bother Haymitch. When he shows up, he knocks back the whole glass like nothing. He does, however, eat his soup, and refuses the offer of another glass.

By the time dinner arrives, I've only been asked a few questions, which is fine with me. I'm not in the mood for banter. I eat food without really tasting it, too enraptured in my thoughts. Portia is explaining about our interview costumes… The interviews. What am I going to do about that? I've never had a problem speaking in front of the class at school, but the whole Q&A thing isn't really my thing.

A girl with red hair comes and places a cake on the table. A moment later, she strikes a match and lights it on fire. I've seen this before. Yes, at the bakery. My father used to make cakes like this on occasion, until my mother left one too close to the oven and it ignited. That was so long ago, I can't remember the name of the cake.

"What make it burn?" Katniss squints at the cake. "Is it alcohol? That's the last thing I wa – Oh!" Katniss studies the girl for a moment. I'm not sure why the girl is so silent. "I know you!"

A look of horror crosses the girl's face, and she hurries out of the room, shaking her head as she goes.

Even Haymitch is watching Katniss with a certain alarming intensity when she turns to face the table again.

"Don't be ridiculous, Katniss," Effie snaps. "How could you possibly know an Avox?"

"What's an Avox?" Katniss asks for me.

Haymitch speaks up. "Someone who committed a crime," he says. "They cut out her tongue so she can't speak. She's probably a traitor of some sort; not likely you'd know her."

"And even if you did, you're not to speak to them unless it's to give an order," Effie finishes. "Of course you don't really know her." But the look on Katniss's face says otherwise.

"I – I can't re –"

I figure I'd better throw Katniss a life preserver if I want an explanation later. So I snap my fingers. "Delly Cartwright. That's who it is. I kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized – she's a dead ringer Delly." In reality, the Avox girl looks nothing like the Cartwright's daughter. So much not so, it would be obvious to anyone who knows Delly to realize that I'm trying to help Katniss out. I pray that Haymitch doesn't pay attention to the people out age in Twelve.

"Of course," Katniss says, seizing the opportunity. "That's who I was thinking of. It must be the hair." I know she's caught on.

"Something about eyes, too," I agree.

"Oh, well." Cinna's expression softens. "If that's all it is. And yes, the cake does have spirits, but all the alcohol has burned off. I ordered it specially, in honor of your fiery debut."

The cake is delicious.

* * *

><p><strong>Short, lame place to end :. Smh. Whatever. Well, yeah. I'm having a hard time with Flattery right now, but no worries... I'm trying to tweak chapter for the next update, so that'll be coming soon. School is starting on Monday here, so I'll be updating even less than I am now... Sorry! I've been getting a lot of alert emails, but not than many reviews... I know people are reading, I just really want your feedback! So, REVIEW!**

**-Seastar**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Haha. Hey guys! Lolz, this chapter was fun! That's all I really have to say. THE GOOD STUFF IS COMING SOON! I'M SO EXCITED! The interviews are my favorite parts of The Hunger Games and Catching Fire! ****Minor setback: Cinna never showed Peeta the roof. ARGH! Screw Cinna. Anyway, I went back and edited that, and I edited the first chapter as well, so Peeta's mother would make an absent scathing remark that becomes necessary to the story later, but was unbeknownst to me when I wrote it. Whatever. It's fixed so... *applause*. Thank you. Now read! :P**

* * *

><p><strong><em>Chapter 5<em>**

After dinner, we're all directed to a parlor of sorts off the dining room. A large television with plush couches and sofas arranged around it is playing back the opening ceremonies. There's a pile of the programs that were handed out to the public earlier – that must have been how everyone knew our names at the ceremony – sitting on a coffee table. I snap one up, eager to learn about our competition.

As we watch the Ceremonies, I examine the tributes, making note of the ones that might be a threat. I'm relieved to see that I'm among the biggest in terms of height, according to handy description beneath my headshot. But that's little reassurance. Most of the boys could outclass me twice over in weight. There are always the Career tributes, from 1, 2, 3, and 4, to look out for. Glimmer, the girl from District 1 looks harmless enough, but looks can be deceiving; Marvel could pose a problem. Clove and Cato from 2 look like a perfect team, practically grinning with blood-thirsty giddiness. They've obviously been dreaming of this moment their entire lives.

Starr and Martin from 3 both look terrified. They'll probably both be dead after the initial blood-bath at the Cornucopia, though it pains me to admit. District 4's tributes, Ruby and Comet, are both broad-shouldered swimmers. They're both rather scrawny, I notice. Maybe they belonged to the population who didn't train day-in and day-out for the Hunger Games.

The rest of the tributes don't look too menacing, least of all little Rue from 11, especially next to her hulk of a district partner, Thresh.

I do try and make the effort to memorize off their names: Reesa and Rex are from 5; Evian and Drake are from 6; Ivy and Horace, 7; Echo and Wren, 8; Willow and Hardy, 9; Lark and Smith from 10; Rue and Thresh are from 11, and Katniss and I, of course are from District 12.

Everyone in the room lets out a collective sigh as out chariot passes by.

"Whose idea was the hand holding?" Haymitch asks.

"Cinna's," Portia announces, smiling and patting Cinna's hand.

"Very nice," Haymitch compliments. "Just the perfect touch of rebellion."

I have to agree with this statement. Not even the Careers tributes, who always end up forming tight alliances in the arena, took more than a fleeting glance at their partners. A pair being presented as a team before the start of the Games, even as friends? That's completely unheard of. It just isn't done.

"Tomorrow morning is the first training session." Haymitch address both me and Katniss. "Meet me for breakfast and I'll tell you exactly how to play it. Now get some sleep while the grown-ups talk."

When we reach the door to her room, I confront her. "So, Delly Cartwright," I say to Katniss, leaning on her doorframe. She can't very well walk past me like this. "Imagine finding her lookalike here."

Katniss gives me a measured look, but says nothing. She's hesitating, calculating what kind of advantage knowing this could possibly give me, I bet. Or maybe she's just afraid she'll get in trouble.

"Have you been to the roof yet?" I ask, trying to keep the conversation moving. Katniss shakes her head. "Cinna showed me. You can see practically the whole city. The wind's a bit loud, though…" _Hint, hint. _

"Can we just go up?" she asks.

"Sure," I say. I doubt Cinna or Haymitch would have a problem. "Come one."

When we reach the top of the stairs, Katniss is practically breathing on my neck. I open the door.

It's darker than it was when I came up with Cinna before dinner – and it makes this place of misery seen even more deceptively beautiful. The twinkling sight would make it easy for anyone to call it home. Like the soft glow of candles in everyone's windows back in Twelve. No way would we ever have this many lights there. Even in town, only a few hours of intermittent electricity were granted to brighten the darkness of night.

Katniss walks to the edge of roof and casts her gaze downward. She's obviously as fascinated as I am with all of the new fancy Capitol privileges and customs.

"I asked Cinna why they let us up here," I say almost absently. "Weren't they afraid some of the tributes might jump over the side?"

"What'd say?" Katniss asks, cocking her head slightly.

"You can't." I throw my hand out and hear the _zap _of electricity that makes it rebound like a palpable wall would. "Some kind of electric field sends you back on the roof."

"Always worried about our safety," Katniss remarks, looking back down. "Do you think they're watching us right now?"

"Maybe," I allow. "Come see the garden."

An unearthly jingling sound comes from the other side of the roof. I probably should have known better than to venture back here at night. It didn't seem so menacing when I was up here with Cinna.

Katniss trudges forward. She stops at a tree and rustles the branches. A small set of wind chimes tinkles out a few high-pitched notes. Looking around, there are at least a hundred more chimes, hanging about.

Katniss is bending over, looking at some kind of flower and avoiding my gaze.

"We were hunting in the woods one day. Hidden, waiting for game," she whispers.

"You and your father?" I ask, matching her hushed tone.

"No, my friend Gale." Of course. "Suddenly all the birds stopped singing at once. Except one. As if it were giving a warning call. And then we saw her. I'm sure it was the same girl. A boy was with her. Their clothes were tattered. They had dark circles under their eyes from no sleep. They were running as if their lives depended on it." She pauses for a minute, and then continues.

"The hovercraft appeared out of nowhere. I mean, one moment the sky was empty and the next it was there. It didn't make a sound, but they saw it. A net dropped down on the girl and carried her up, fast, so fast like the elevator. They shot some sort of spear through the boy. It was attached to a cable and they hauled him up as well. But I'm certain he was dead. We heard the girl scream once. The boy's name, I think. Then it was gone, the hovercraft. Vanished into thin air. And the birds began to sing again, as if nothing had happened."

"Did they see you?" I can practically hear her heart pounding.

"I don't know." She swallows. "We were under a shelf of rock."

If she's lying, she's not very good at it.

"You're shivering," I observe, taking off my jacket and putting it around her shoulder without a second thought. It's the gentlemanly thing to do. It wasn't as if I'd never done it for girl either.

Stupid. I'm stupid. I can't believe she's actually luring me in. And the worst part is, she's not even trying. Katniss doesn't have a silly little crush on me. She isn't going to spare my life. To her, I'm just another competitor to pick off. She'll probably just wait for someone else to take me. If it comes down to it, she'll kill me. There's almost no doubt in my mind.

But she doesn't throw off the jacket. She let's me button it around her neck. The least she can do is pretend to be friends. "They were from here?" I question, continuing the conversation. Katniss nods "Where do you think they were going?" I wonder what kind of crime they committed – what could be so horrible that the Capitol would send a hovercraft to track you down and kill you.

"I don't know that," Katniss replies. I can't really say I expected her to. Where is there to run to? District 12 – there's nothing after that. Wilderness, I suppose. I guess living in the wild for the remainder of your life is preferable to becoming an Avox. Or worse, being put to death.

"I'd leave here." The words slip out without permission. Katniss looks alarmed. I guess they're the truth, though. I'd leave here and never look back. But the Capitol can't know that. If you give them reason to suspect that you're of rebellious nature, they'll pick you off in the arena like nothing.

So I laugh. "I'd go home right now, if they'd let me. But you have to admit, the food's prime. We'd better go in." _Before I say anything else stupid. _

We're heading down the stairs when I ask, "Your friend Gale. He's the one who took your sister away at the reaping?" I ask. I know it was Gale; I just want to know how she feels about him.

"Yes," says Katniss. "Do you know him?"

"Not really. I hear the girls talk about him a lot. I thought he was your cousin or something. You favor each other."

Katniss shakes her head. "No, we're not related."

I nod thoughtfully. "Did he come to say good-bye to you?" Now that I think about, if I hadn't been reaped, I probably would have dragged myself up to that door and spilled my guts.

"Yes." So he did come. "So did your father. He brought me cookies."

My father? I drop the Gale escapade. I guess he had been carrying cookies in his hand, but I figured that was just a baker thing. "Really? Well, he likes you and your sister. I think he wishes he had a daughter instead of a houseful of boys." By the way he talked about the Everdeen children, I'd bet my father would trade all three of his sons for one of Primrose. "He knew your mother when they were kids."

"Oh, yes." By Katniss's reaction, it's easy to tell that she's never heard this. "She grew up in town."

"See you in the morning, then," Katniss says when we reach her door.

"See you," I say with a note of reluctance in my voice. She shuts the door.

I turn around and head back down the hall to my own room. I hear voices coming from Effie's room. The door swings open and Portia, Cinna, and Haymitch all exit, looking frustrated. I wonder what that little powwow was about.

I sigh and plop down on my bed. All there's left to do is sleep. But I don't think sleep is going to come easily tonight. So I lay in bed. Practice for the interviews is tomorrow. I suppose Effie and Haymitch will be tutoring us on Capitol etiquette. If I win, I'll have to do the same. Tutor with Effie. I guess Haymitch will finally be relieved of his job.

I wonder how Haymitch's mentor treated him. There has only ever been one other victor from 12… Reyna Condor. She won the 37th Hunger Games. When she was sixteen-years-old. Same as me.

I can't imagine living in a time when your grandparents, maybe even your parents, could remember a world at peace. No fighting, no Capitol. No Hunger Games. It's beyond belief nowadays.

I try to sleep. I really do. But slowing my breathing and heart rate is proving to be a difficult task. Especially with Katniss screaming intermittently in the room adjacent to mine. I can guess what she's dreaming about. The Games. Death. Both are in my dreams, too.

It seems like I've only just fallen asleep when I wake. I'm practically drenched in cold sweat, but I can't remember what my dream was about.

I take a shower. Ugh – the tub still smells like roses. I guess today I have better control over my limbs because I don't neither fall nor start sporadically hitting buttons.

No one's come to collect me for breakfast, even though it's a bit later than we usually eat. I don't mind much, because I'm not hungry. So I lay motionless on the bed. Still. Enjoying the silence. This may be one of the last moments of peace I have left.

I'm actually dozing off due to lack of sleep when someone knocks on my door.

I'm expecting Effie, but once again I'm surprised. Haymitch shoves past me to the bed, grunting by way of greeting.

"What are you doing here?" I ask moodily.

Haymitch yawned. "I'm here to talk to you. What does it look like?"

It sounds like Haymitch might actually be sober. "It looks like you barged into my room, without invitation. And it also looks as if you are currently laying yourself in my bed – without invitation. But then again, it just _looks _like that."

Haymitch snorts. "Look," he says, obviously not finding my little speech amusing, "I'll be straight up with you. From this moment on. I like the girl better."

Of course he does. He sympathizes with her, having grown up in the Seam. "Hopefully this visit wasn't meant to lift my spirits," I say, scowling.

"Let me finish. I like her better, but I'm willing to help both of you. Of course, you know only one of you can win. There's nothing I can do to help that. But the way you're telling it, between the two of you, you'd rather her win."

I nod sullenly.

Haymitch cocks an eyebrow at me. "Having doubts, Lover Boy?"

"Maybe," is all I say.

* * *

><p><strong>Good names (for the other tributes)? Fail names? (- more likely) I wanna know! Tell me off in a review! It ended at a lame place again, but I didn't feel like dragging this chapter out any further. ANYWAY, I have a lot of alerts on this story. It's pretty awesome. I know a lot of people are reading it (or at least intend to). I'm proud to say, Flattery is on it's 99th review! I'll love you forever if you make it a hundred! <strong>

**Okay, so I've been meaning to do this since chapter 2, I just forgot. SURVEY! I've thought of three names for my next Hunger Games fic. It's going to Catching Fire from Peeta's POV. I 10000% want to continue this. So, here they are:**

**(1) Burning Bliss (2) Heaven and Hell (3) Angels and Demons**

**Okay, in my opinion, only one of them isn't a complete fail :). But as the reader, you should have an input. They all play on the same point: Peeta is with Katniss (like, all the time), but he can't have her. So, if/when you review, put the little number of the name you like best in there with it. Plus, if you have any suggestions for names, put 'em in there, too. Lolz, this chapter would have been out sooner if I hadn't gotten distracted by listening to Disney songs on YouTube. Oh well.**

**PEACE, homies.**

**-Seastar**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Howdy, y'all. It's been a while. Sorry. HAPPY LABOR DAY WEEKEND! No work, no school (Unless you work at Kroger.) (Half of you probably don't even know what Kroger is. It's the equivalent of Wegmans in the South, where I live. We don't have Wegmans O.o). - Tangent. ANYways. Yeah. I'm having trouble coaxing that innocent Peeta goodness out of myself; there's always a motive in my mind... O.o. Yeah. This chapter is _very, very, very _short, I do realize, but I figured you guys would be happier with a short chapter, as opposed to no chapter at all. I've been stuck where the end is for about a week, so I figured, what the hey? Another tangent - I was thinking… because Peeta is knocked out for more or less half the time in the arena, wouldn't that significantly cut down the stuff I have to write about? I have and idea! It's not a good one, but still! So, I was thinking that instead of, like everything stopping right before they got to train station in 12 that I would write a little bit after that, maybe just one or two extra-long chapters or something, just to make up for the time lost. So, yeah, I'm think too far ahead. I swear, once training start and the interviews, things will definitely heat up, so STICK AROUND, PLEASE! Read & Review!**

* * *

><p>Haymitch sighs, rolls his eyes, those Seam Grey eyes, turns in his heel, and stalks out of my room. I know he expects me to follow, but it's only his shout that gets me off the bed.<p>

I'm wondering, does Katniss get this many surprise visitors? Or is it just me?

"Good morning, Katniss," Haymitch say cordially, and glances at me.

"Good morning," I mumble. I guess Haymitch doesn't want me saying anything to Katniss about our little conversation.

Katniss doesn't say anything, not even "good morning" in return, as we grab plates and pile out plates with food. She just looks down at her clothes and tugs at them, like they're irritating her.

Training starts today. I calm my nerves temporarily by reminding myself that I don't want to win, so my scores don't matter. But then I realize – I do want to win. Who in their right mind would give up their life so easily? Still, I don't want Katniss to die… I needed a plan B, right now. Desperately.

Haymitch finishes his fifth plate of food and takes a drag from a little bottle he's pulled from his coat. "Let's get down to business," he says. "Training. First off, if you like, I'll coach you separately."

I'm thinking that might be a good plan, when Katniss asks, "Why would you coach us separately?"

"Say if you had a secret skill you might not want the other to know about," Haymitch says.

I exchange a look with Katniss. "I don't have any secret skills," I say modestly. It's by default. Acting like I'm not considering conspiring against Katniss to win these Games. But we've already been presented as a team, so what is there to lose now? "And I already know what yours is," I add, "right? I mean, I've eaten enough of you squirrels." The ones shot cleanly through the eye. The thought brings a twinge of longing for home. The place where I didn't have to play people's emotions, intentionally or unintentionally.

"You can coach us together," Katniss says firmly. I nod in agreement.

"Alright," Haymitch says, "so give me some idea of what you can do."

"I can't do anything," I admit. "Unless you count baking bread," I add after a pause.

"Sorry," Haymitch says, "I don't. Katniss. I already know you're handy with a knife."

"Not really. But I can hunt," Katniss says. "With a bow and arrow."

"And you're good?"

Katniss seems to consider this for a moment. "I'm alright," she decides.

I blanch. "She's excellent," I protest. "My father buys her squirrels. He always comments on how the arrows never pierce the body." Or maybe that's me.

"She hits every one square in the eye. It's the same with the rabbits she sells the butcher. She can even bring down a deer."

Katniss looks at me, surprised. "What are doing," she asks, perplexed.

"What you doing?" I shoot back. If he's going to help you, he has to know what you're capable of."

"What about you?" Katniss counters forcibly, as if she can outdo me with compliments. "I've seen you in the market – you can lift hundred-pound bags of flour. Tell him that! That's not nothing!"

"Yes, and I'm sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for me to chuck at people. It's not like being able to use a weapon. You know it isn't," I snap.

"He can wrestle." Katniss turns to Haymitch. "He came in second in our school competition last year, only after his brother."

"What use is that? How many times have you seen someone wrestle someone to death?"

"There's always hand-to-hand combat. All you need is to come up with a knife, and you'll at least stand a chance. If I get jumped, I'm dead!" Katniss says, her voice rising in hysteria.

"But you won't! You'll be living up in some tree eating raw squirrels and picking off people with arrows. You know what my mother said to me when she came to say good-bye, as if to cheer me up, she says maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner. Then I realized, she didn't mean me, she meant you!" I explode.

"Oh, she meant you, alright," Katniss says.

"She said, "She's a survivor, that one," I quote miserably. "_She _is."

Katniss opens her mouth – then closes it again, genuinely shocked. I'm actually shocked that came out of my mouth. And I can only guess what my mother was referring to. That day in the rain. That day she beat the little, pale, skin-and-bones girl away from her trashcans. Katniss remembers it, too. My eyes go to the roll and her hands, and I almost lose it. But instead I shrug. My mother can think what she wants.

"People will help you in the arena. They'll be tripping over each other to sponsor you."

"No more than you."

I roll my eyes. "She has no idea. The effect she has on people," I says to Haymitch. I'm sure he understands; he knew my mother. To impress her – not even her own son can do it.

I run my finger along the wood grain in the table, as Katniss glowers at the buttery roll in her hand.

"Well, then." Haymitch breaks the silence. "Well, well, well. Katniss, there's no guarantee they'll be bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with the Game makers, show them what you can do. Until then, stay clear of archery. Are you any good at trapping?"

Katniss murmurs something in confirmation.

"That may be significant in terms of food," says Haymitch. "And Peeta," he tells me, "she's right, never underestimate strength in the arena. Very often, physical power tilts the advantage to a player. In the Training Center, they will have weights, but don't reveal how much you can lift in front of the other tributes. The plan's the same for both of you. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don't know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Learn to tie a decent knot. Save showing what you're best at until your private sessions. Are we clear?"

We both nod in accent. "One last thing," our mentor adds. "In public, I want you by each others side every minute." Katniss makes a noise in her throat and I've about had it with this twins act, but Haymitch slams his fist into the table and roars, "Every minute! It's not open for discussion! You agreed to do as I said! You will be together, you will appear amiable to each other. Now get out. Meet Effie at the elevator at ten for training."

Katniss stalks out of the room dramatically, and a door slams in the distance. After that, Haymitch sends me to my room.

* * *

><p><strong>Um... I'm going to need you guys to ignore that part about Peeta's mom until I can get that fixed. I thought it would be fine, I was wrong. Sorry! :( Oh well. Now:<strong>

A**lright, guys. Let's try this again. I know people are reading this fic, because I've gotten so many alerts it's not even funny. But nobody is reviewing! Don't get me wrong, I'm happy with the alerts, but only one person had expressed their opinion about the new names! Do you guys have no preference? C'mon! Sorry, that was really intense :p. So, here the names are again:**

**1) Burning Bliss. 2) Heaven and Hell. 3) Angels and Demons.**

**I think two of them are really stupid. Haha, I know, I made them up, but I just want to see if you guys like as well. And if you have any suggestions about the name, just send them to me in a PM and/or a review! I'll say again, the names kind of play on the fact that Peeta is so close to Katniss, but she's still so far away. These things come to me in my sleep, XD, so if that's dumb, please let me know. (Side Note: This story would be Catching Fire from Peeta's POV).**

**Ummm... Review(?) Hahaha :D. I'm sorry this is so short and boring... In case you're interested, the next Flattery update will be sometime next week :)**

**-Seastar97**


	7. Chapter 7

**Ugggghhh. I'm having trouble coaxing that innocent Peeta goodness out of myself; there's always a motive in my mind... **

**Haha, that was a weird way to start. HI GUYS. I haven't updated since before school started... sorry. It's early release so, I had time (but I really didn't because I've have like 5 study guides). Anyway, sorry for the HUGE delay. ****Um, I'm going to need you guys to ignore that part about Peeta's mom until I can get that fixed. I thought it would be fine, I was wrong. Sorry!**

**More: I was thinking… because Peeta is knocked out for more or less half the time in the arena, wouldn't that significantly cut down the stuff I have to write about? I have and idea! It's not a good one, but still! So, I was thinking that instead of, like everything stopping right before they got to train station in 12 that I would write a little bit after that, maybe just one extra-long chapter or something, just to make up for the time lost.**

**SI'm confused: Are there no books in Panem? That seems kind of ironic, considering that all this stuff is _in _a _book. _And how do you even say "Panem"? Pan-em? Pa-nem? Pan-um? That the way I say it. Pan-um.**

**I'm kind of leaning heavily on other authors' ideas here… so: ****DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Hunger Games, or anything else I might have accidentally taken from Suzanne Collins or any other authors. :) **(modesest smile)

**This is just random thougts from me... Hehe. Anyway, if you're interested, Flattery should be updated in about two weeks or so...**

**READ! :D**

* * *

><p>Haymitch sighs, rolls his eyes, those Seam Grey eyes, turns on his heel, and stalks out of my room. I know he expects me to follow, but it's only his shout that gets me off the bed.<p>

I'm wondering, does Katniss get this many surprise visitors, or is it just me?

"Good morning, Katniss," Haymitch says cordially to Katniss, and glares at me as we enter the dining room.

"Good morning," I mumble. I guess Haymitch doesn't want me saying anything to Katniss about our little conversation.

Katniss doesn't say anything, not even "good morning" in return, as we grab plates and pile them with food. She just looks down at her clothes and tugs at them, like they're irritating her. I notice something – we're dressed alike, or as alike as we can be, like on the chariot. My _look is more masculine, _I try to convince myself.

Training starts today. I calm my nerves temporarily by reminding myself that I don't want to win, so my scores don't matter. But then I realize – I _do_ want to win. Still, I don't want Katniss to die. But if that's what it takes… I need a plan B, right now, desperately.

I play with my food, taking a huge bite every now and then, because whether my stomach likes it or not, I _am _hungry, unable to form any reasonable thoughts, while Katniss eats hungrily. Haymitch finishes his fifth plate of food –I guess I'm in the minority today – and takes a drag from a little bottle he's pulled from his coat. "Let's get down to business," he says. "Training. First off, if you like, I'll coach you separately."

I'm thinking that might be a good plan, when Katniss asks, "Why would you coach us separately?"

"Say you had a secret skill you might not want the other to know about," Haymitch says.

I exchange a look with Katniss. "I don't have any secret skills," I say modestly. It's by default. Acting like I'm not considering conspiring against Katniss to win these Games. But we've already been presented as a team, so what is there to lose now?

"And I already know what yours is," I add, "right? I mean, I've eaten enough of you squirrels." The ones shot cleanly through the eye. The thought brings a twinge of longing for home, for the normalcy that it possesses. The place where I didn't have to play people's emotions, intentionally or unintentionally.

"You can coach us together," Katniss says. I nod in agreement.

"Alright," says Haymitch, "so give me some idea of what you can do."

"I can't do anything," I admit. "Unless you count baking bread," I add after a pause.

"Sorry," Haymitch says, "I don't. Katniss. I already know you're handy with a knife."

"Not really. But I can hunt," Katniss says. "With a bow and arrow."

"And you're good?"

Katniss seems to consider this for a moment. "I'm alright," she decides.

I blanch. Alright? "She's excellent," I protest, "My father buys her squirrels. He always comments on how the arrows never pierce the body." Or maybe that's me. "She hits every one square in the eye. It's the same with the rabbits she sells the butcher. She can even bring down a deer."

Katniss looks at me, as if surprised I've even bothered noticing these thing, when they are certainly noteworthy. You can't live in District 12 without having had at least a little of Katniss Everdeen or Gale Hawthorne's game, Rooba makes sure of that; it's a primary food source. I'm just surprised they're not rich as the mayor.

"What are doing?" she asks, perplexed.

"What you doing?" I shoot back. If he's going to help you, he has to know what you're capable of."

"What about you?" Katniss counters forcibly, as if she can outdo me with compliments. "I've seen you in the market – you can lift hundred-pound bags of flour. Tell him that! That's not nothing!"

"Yes, and I'm sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for me to chuck at people. It's not like being able to use a weapon. You know it isn't," I snap.

"He can wrestle." Katniss turns to Haymitch. "He came in second in our school competition last year, only after his brother."

"What use is that? How many times have you seen someone wrestle someone to death?"

"There's always hand-to-hand combat. All you need is to come up with a knife, and you'll at least stand a chance. If I get jumped, I'm dead!" Katniss's voice has been rising, and now it's about an octave higher than usual.

"But you won't! You'll be living up in some tree eating raw squirrels and picking off people with arrows. You know what my mother said to me when she came to say good-bye, as if to cheer me up, she says maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner. Then I realized, she didn't mean me, she meant you!" I explode.

"Oh, she meant you, alright," Katniss almost sneers.

"She said, 'She's a survivor, that one,' I quote miserably. "_She _is.""

Katniss opens her mouth – then closes it again, genuinely shocked. I'm actually shocked that came out of my mouth. And I can only guess what my mother was referring to. That day in the rain. That day she beat the tiny, pale, not to mention starving, skin-and-bones girl away from her trashcans. Katniss thinks of it, too – can tell by the look on her face. My eyes go to the roll and her hands, and I almost lose it. But instead I shrug. My mother can think what she wants.

"People will help you in the arena. They'll be tripping over each other to sponsor you."

"No more than you."

I roll my eyes. "She has no idea. The effect she has on people," I says to Haymitch. I'm sure he understands. He looks at me, pity in his eyes. He knew my mother. To impress her, to be seen as strong in _her _eyes? Not even her own son can do it.

I run my finger along the wood grain in the table, as Katniss glowers at the buttery roll in her hand.

"Well, then." Haymitch breaks the silence. "Well, well, well. Katniss, there's no guarantee they'll be bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with the Game makers, show them what you can do. Until then, stay clear of archery. Are you any good at trapping?"

Katniss murmurs something in confirmation.

"That may be significant in terms of food," says Haymitch. "And Peeta," he tells me, "she's right, never underestimate strength in the arena. Very often, physical power tilts the advantage to a player. In the Training Center, they will have weights, but don't reveal how much you can lift in front of the other tributes. The plan's the same for both of you. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don't know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Learn to tie a decent knot. Save showing what you're best at until your private sessions. Are we clear?"

We both nod in accent. "One last thing," our mentor adds. "In public, I want you by each others side every minute." Katniss makes a noise in her throat and I've about had it with this twins act, but Haymitch slams his fist into the table and roars, "Every minute! It's not open for discussion! You agreed to do as I said! You will be together, you will appear amiable to each other. Now get out. Meet Effie at the elevator at ten for training."

Katniss stalks out of the room dramatically, and a door slams in the distance. After that, Haymitch sends me to my room.

Sitting on my bed, I shake me head. Shouldn't I want to do some more thinking? Now that my final days are fast approaching. All I want to do is shut my brain down. Some words come to mind. My father's great-great-grandfather was one of the few to make it through the apocalypse with his life. My great-great-great-grandfather. Some of his family and possessions made it, too. He was descended from on long line of poets. I am descended from a long line of poets, and artists. Long ago, one of my ancestors composed a poem. T.S Eliot. My father has the yellowing paper hanging on the wall of the bakery – he even bought a frame for it, when the parchment was beginning to deteriorate so badly that, each time it was touched, a new piece fell to the floor.

My father told my brothers and me the same thing his father told him, whenever we asked about it, which we did time and time again, and probably what his father's father told him: "That is a poem, Peeta." He'd lean against the doorframe of the closet, staring at the opposite wall were the paper hung. "It dates back to – I don't know when. But a very famous poet wrote it, one of my ancestors. One of your ancestors, too."

"T.S. Eliot." I'd fill in the blank because I'd heard it so many times before.

"Yes," my father would say, and then gaze at the poem. I'd follow his eyes:

_"This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but with a whimper."_

_That doesn't have to be me, _I realize, _that doesn't have to be my poem. _This is my life. And I'm not going out without a fight. I can write my own poem, even though I'm sure how to fill the blanks in – yet.

_The dead can't speak. The dead can't speak. _Those words circle around the inside of my head, an endless loop. _Thedeadcan'tspeak . _I think them as I make my way to the elevator; it's ten till ten – time to meet Effie. _Thedeadcan'tspeak. _Am I really going to die without saying everything I have to say? The dead can't speak – but if they could, they might never stop talking. I stop in front of the elevator when I see Effie's pink hair.

* * *

><p><strong>Started in the middle of the action, ending in the middle of the action. I hope you liked it x10000 :)) <strong>

**Alright, guys. Let's try this again. I know people are reading this fic, because I've gotten so many alerts it's not even funny. But nobody is reviewing! Don't get me wrong, I'm happy with the alerts, but only one person had expressed their opinion about the new names! Do you guys have no preference? C'mon! Sorry, that was really intense :p. So, here the names are again:**

**1) Burning Bliss. 2) Heaven and Hell. 3) Angels and Demons.**

**I think two of them are really stupid. Haha, I know, I made them up, but I just want to see if you guys like as well. And if you have any suggestions about the name, just send them to me in a PM and/or a review! I'll say again, the name kind of play on the fact that Peeta is so close to Katniss, but she's still so far away. These things come to me in my sleep, XD, so if that's dumb, please let me know lol :). ^^ I'm happy. I'll be even happier if you review and answer the survey. If you don't, I'll become depressed and kill you guys (you see, if I killed myself which is logical, I would'nt be able to tell the other readers that I killed all you guys. So, REVIEW!) Check out my profile, and subscribe! Please! **

**Thanks x1,000,000,000!**

**-Seastar :))**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Hey guys's. Haha. That's bad grammar right there. Anyway, the chapter is (finally) finished! And GUESS WHAT? It's NOVEMBER 8TH! YEEEESSSSSSS! (Before a lot of you just keep on reading, I just want you to know that this doesn't really have much meaning to you if you don't read Christopher Paolini). Proabably most of y'all are thinkin', "Yeah, it's November 8th, dumbass. My calendar already told me that." But some of you might actually know what I'm talking about. So I'm really mad. I ordered a copy of _Inheritance _from Barnes & Friggin' Noble, because I had a giftcard for there like, 8 months ago, when they first said the release date, but they don't deliver until like, a week later! UUUGGGHHH! I'm probably just going to end up looking on Google to see if Eragon ends up with Arya! I'm probably going to do that right now! **

**Lol, I'm writing with the book next to me, so I can get the order of events, and quote things right and everything. It's really hard trying not to repeat things that Katniss see, but then I realize, probably none of you has the book in hand, pointing out every similarity. Whew. Anyway, I am trying my best to make Peeta notice other things. ****I'm trying to make Peeta more 3D character, like Katniss. *Sigh* It's hard. **

**I'm really stupid. My original plan was to make Peeta have has a girlfriend. So I made him think his girlfriend's name, but then I forgot about her, so I tried to add a scene with his girlfriend, but then I failed. That's what I get for not re-reading what I already wrote. POOP. **

**This Author's Note crap is really stupid, so before I make you go crazy...**

**Before I say CHAPTER 8! Imma do disclaimer first:**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of this awesome plot or any of the characters or quotes, of which I have used a lot. Suzanne Collins takes all the credit for the good stuff. **

_**CHAPTER 8!**_

* * *

><p>Effie beams when she sees me. "Right on time," she says, though it becomes evident she's wrong. By the time Katniss shows up, and we're finally in the training room, it's obvious District 12's tributes are the last to show.<p>

We're underground, according to the elevator and Effie. As soon as we step out of the elevator car, somebody sticks a number 12 on the back of my shirt. In front of us, the rest of the tributes have circled up and are trading quiet, meaningless words.

When Katniss and I push our way into group, a young woman steps into the middle of the circle.

"My name is Atala," she says, twisting her brownish into a ponytail. "I am the head trainer for this Hunger Games." She begins pointing out stations, such as painting, edible plant identification, and weight lifting and archery, which I'm sure we will be going nowhere near. Gamemakers are situated around them, clipboards in hands. The rules are brief and simple: engaging in combat with other tributes is forbidden at this point. They also remind us to be mindful of our mentor's instructions.

I sneak a glance at Katniss, who has a frightened glint in her eye, like a child anticipating a scolding or a punishment, but it's mixed with a little bit of agitation. I wonder if she's still angry with Haymitch. I have practically been breathing on her neck for the past five minutes. I back up and follow her line of sight – she appears to be sizing up the competition. I'm not surprised she's intimidated; I'm not worried for myself, as I myself am among the biggest in terms of muscle, but I'm suddenly concerned for Katniss. She came in looking relatively confident, but that self-assurance seems to have deflated somewhat. Despite her size, she may still have a chance, if she's able to get her hands on a bow and arrow. And that's a big _if._

Even though Katniss is in the smaller group, there's another classification: the starving. Or the obviously starved, to be more exact. Those whose bodies longed to grow, to reach full height, but have been deprived of the nutrients needed to do so. There's a crippled boy with the number _10_on his back, a prime example. His cheeks are hollow, even with the enormous Capitol portions of food he must be getting. I wonder what his family looks like, now. How they feel. It sounds cruel, but he's obviously never going to make it back, not unless by some freakish, unforeseen even in which all of the tributes simultaneously self-destruct, leaving him Victor.

Katniss's breathing beside me brings me back to the present. I nudge her arm and she jumps. She wears the same grim expression as I can imagine I'm wearing. "Where would you like to start?"

Katniss turns her head slightly, examining the room: the Careers have hit the ground running; this is their element. The other are wandering around, or else having lessons with weapons they've probably never held in their lives. It's not surprising - the biggest things I've ever handled are butcher's and bread knives.

"Let's tie some knots," Katniss decides, choosing a conspicuously empty station.

"Right you are," I agree, starting across the stadium.

When the trainer smiles at us, it reminds me of my father – he smiles the smile my father saves for the first customer of the day. I get the feeling not many tributes consider making little bumps in pieces of rope a valuable skill. It's hard to ignore the Careers sneers, but Katniss somehow manages not to notice. Watching her so engrossed in her work, it becomes easier to lose myself.

"Wonderful," the trainer says, examining Katniss's delicate snare. He is a thin man, with graying hair, and I can't help nut thinking he wouldn't make it through his Hunger Games. "This is simply wonderful."

The man shows us how to execute a few more knots and snares, and while I have a bit of trouble, which Katniss can't help but smirk at, she flies through the motions like my mother with knitting needles.

The trainer shakes his head as Katniss finishes off the fifth straight snare. "Is there anything you can't do?"

"Give me your best," Katniss replies.

The next snare gives a little challenge – or in my case a large challenge – which placates the trainer a bit. Once we both have the snare perfected, Katniss and I move ahead to the camouflage station.

This is where I belong. At least somebody thought it was important enough to include this in training. I could be ten years old again, outside behind the bakery after school, as I mix berries and mud together in greens and sun-shiny yellows, and sky-like blues. My mother never let me paint on my skin, as water could only be spared for bathing on certain occasions, but as I work the designs onto my own arms and legs, I feel as if there could be no better canvas.

Katniss isn't doing too bad herself, but her enthusiasm has visibly decreased since knot tying.

The trainer gives out simple directions to the both of us, which I quickly improve upon – instead of mixing yellow, I mix orange, instead of purple, light blue. The trainer, this time a slender, muscular woman with graceful fingers, nods encouragingly. "Very good," she says. "Where did you learn?"

"My parents have a bakery back home," I answer, glad for the opportunity to speak. "I do the cakes," I admit to both her and Katniss, who has just turned to face us.

"The cakes?" she looks around as if searching for them. "What cakes?"

"At home. The iced ones for the bakery." Neither of my parents can ice for their lives, and my brothers have ever tried. I try and gage Katniss's reaction – I remember her dragging her sister away from the display window on several occasions, but I've also seen her admiring the cakes by herself, late at night coming home from a hunt.

She narrows her eyes and studies the designs on my arms closely. The patterns I have created. For whatever reason, annoyance flashes in her eyes. Or maybe it's jealous admiration. Whatever it is, she's not exactly pleased.

"It's lovely," Katniss says, "if only you could frost someone to death."

"Don't be so superior," I say, joking to hide my slight agitation. "You can never tell what you'll find in the arena. Say it's actually a gigantic cake –"

"Say we move on." Katniss swiftly wipes her hands on a cloth as if she's suddenly decided that paining is completely childish.

We only get to spend a short amount of time at climbing before lunchtime is announced. I sit by Katniss, Katniss sits by me. We appear inseparable, as Haymitch thinks will eventually work to our advantage. My face reddens suddenly when I think of what I told him, and what he relayed to Cinna. I admire Katniss for speaking up for herself, which I can never seem to do, and for being so sure of her own abilities. But love? I'm not so sure.

Katniss looks quizzically at my ruddy complexion, which only deepens my blush. My skin is so pale that it's hard to hide.

"It's hot in here, don't you think?" I try to sound nonchalant. Katniss nods in slow agreement. I look around the room, avoiding her eyes as much as possible. We sit with our table slightly distanced from our competitors; gamemakers mill around, speaking sporadically to one another, pointing out certain tributes, including the kids from 12. Though we're sitting near the weaker-looking tributes, it does nothing to redirect the Careers' blatant stares. They all sit in a large group, already having chosen to be allies. Not to trust each other, but to place duty in one another's hands.

I wonder if I should be thinking about allying with the Careers. They'd probably take me. It doesn't seem right forgoing Haymitch's directions, though, and leaving Katniss, even when I have the sneaking suspicion she wouldn't say anything if I were to join the bigger tributes.

Anyhow, we've basically reached a silent agreement on the topic. Haymitch asks us about it the next night at dinner.

Neither of us says anything, aside from, "no," in answer, but I'm full of reasons against it. If we team up with the poorer districts, we'll end up betraying them anyhow; there can only be one Victor in the end – that's the ultimate problem, and of course if we join forces with the more experienced fighters, they'll probably slit out throats in out sleep.

Haymitch leaves it an open option, nevertheless. His only policy is that whatever is decided, it has to be unanimous.

The days carry on, death hanging over me like a constant shroud. I'm doing fine at every station, average you could say, but I'm worried about Katniss: she excels at every activity, and calls more attention to herself than I think she realizes. I don't say anything though; it makes her a bigger threat, which could also conceivably make her a bigger target, but either way, she can't help it; she's bred for survival.

I think of mentioning something along those lines at lunch one day, but I don't. It would only result in an argument, and we haven't exactly being putting up the buddy-buddy façade Haymitch wants.

So I dump the bread basket on the table instead. "My father has a book about bread on the bakery counter," I say, though I'm fairly sure Katniss has never been in the bakery. "See, each district has its own bread." I show her the District 12 biscuit. "Look familiar?"

Katniss nods. "I think the Capitol one tastes best," she says drily. Any one of the breads is better than what we've both eaten our whole lives. The small, baked blobs of dough are the bulk of what my parents make at the bakery these days; it's cheap and everyone buys it.

"There you have it." I sweep the breads back into the basket.

"You certainly know a lot," Katniss says a little lamely. I've been directing her on what to say all week, and that's the best she's come up with so far.

"Only about bread. Okay, now laugh as if I've said something funny." We both give a little chuckle. "All right, I'll keep smiling pleasantly and you talk."

"Did I ever tell you about the time I got chased by a bear?"

Of course not; she's never talked to me beyond this in my life. "No, I say, but it sounds fascinating."

"Well, I was hunting," Katniss begins thoughtfully. "My bag of spoils was already almost too full for me to carry. But then I saw a beehive. I was a doozy of a beehive; about this big-" Katniss widens her arms in exaggerated measurement - "by this wide." She gestures again, her hands flying out, and I a laugh a little bit louder than the situation warrants.

"What does a beehive look like? I've never seen one," I say.

"It's shaped a little like an oval," Katniss says. "It almost has tiers - like a cake."

I nod, picturing it. "Go on."

"Greasy Sae -" Katniss cuts herself off. "Have you ever been around the Hob?"

I shake my head. "No." Not like I'll ever get the then chance now. "My friends have."

"Oh," Katniss continues. "Anyway, Greasy Sae had been nagging me about honey for months, so I wasn't about to give up a chance like this. So I set down my game bag, but I heard a growling noise behind me. When I turned around, I saw the biggest bear in the whole woods."

"Weren't you scared?" I ask.

"Not really. At first I thought it was me the thing was after, but then I realized it was after the same thing as me."

I listen as Katniss battles it out with a bear for the honey that is rightfully hers, smiling with smiles that don't completely reach my eyes and half-laughing right along with her.

* * *

><p><strong>That's it. Now I have to look up whether or not Eragon ends up with Eragon. SPOILERS. Haha. Anyway, reveiw, check out the survey on the last two chapters, or maybe the chapter before the last chapter, review, I already said that, review. There it is again. Ahaha. In case anyone is wondering when I going to update Flattery, the answer is that I don't really know, but I can say that writing this is a lot more fun right now, and also that I just messed up litterally fifteen times typing this sentence. It's late. I'm tired, so review, again. <strong>

**TOODLES! XD**

**-Seastar**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Howdy, _me hermanos_. I was bored, so I finished this. That's really all I have to say. I hope y'all had swell Thanksgivings. READ & REVIEW. **

* * *

><p>There's a little girl tailing me and Katniss. She's not being very subtle about it, either. Whichever station we were last at, she'll look around a little, and then make a beeline for it.<p>

"I think we have a shadow." I'm pretty Katniss has already noticed, but she averts her eyes from her knife target for a moment and looks at me quizzically. The knife veers off course and just barely snags the edge of the outer edge of the circular board. Katniss makes an indignant sound in the back of her throat.

I pick up knife myself, waiting for her to say something. She doesn't, just grabs a spear from the pile of projectile weapons. "Think her name is Rue," I say softly.

"What can we do about it?" Katniss snaps, taking aim.

I am taken aback a little bit. We both throw at the same time, and our weapons collide with one another, having both been on the same direct course toward the bull's eye. I guess I angered her a little when I made her miss the last shot.

"Nothing to do," I reply. "Just making conversation."

Friendly _conversation, _I add in my head. Then I wonder: Why choose us? Why would little Rue choose to follow Katniss and I around like a lost puppy? She would have been better off with the Careers; they may seem heartless, but they must have hearts. The size maybe questionable, of course, but who could turn down a little girl asking for a few more days to live?

Little Rue would prove to a useful ally; it turns out she's not too bad with a slingshot, or at identifying edible plants. Like Katniss. It's probably because of her background, growing up in District 11.

I try to tell Haymitch about her at dinnertime. "She looks very… spry. I think she could help us…" I falter on the word. I'm not really sure if Katniss and I want to go our separate ways in the arena. "And maybe we can help her in return."

Haymitch isn't really that interested. "If you think she can help you stay alive, use her. If you don't, leave her alone." I don't like his terminology. I don't want to _use_anyone. Not even the Careers, which Haymitch was in the middle of suggesting when I interrupted him.

"I'm not speaking for the both of us," Katniss says slowly, "but I, for one, don't want to mess around with alliances and friendships. It's like fraternizing with the enemy, if you as me, especially since we're all going to end up killing each other." So there it is. Out in the open. We don't need anyone.

From here on out, it's full battle tactics. Haymitch discusses techniques with special insights, because he's been in the arena before; Effie points out flaws in his reasoning, and, probably in Katniss's opinion, is just annoying in general.

All of Katniss's and my ideas are shot down point blank. I don't mind just listening to their opinions, but it appears that our mentors are really getting under Katniss's skin.

It's about 11 o'clock when our dishes are finally carried away. I'm through with 18-hour days; they definitely aren't improving my mood, only giving me more time to dwell on the fact that I probably won't be here in another week.

I think it gives Haymitch too much time to dwell on the fact that he _will _be here next week, though.

"Someone ought to get Haymitch a drink," I mutter conspiratorially to Katniss.

She snorts. "Don't. Don't let's pretend when there's no one around."

"All right, Katniss," I concede, completely wiped out. There it is, laid clean and clear in front of me. She doesn't want to be friends – she doesn't even want to talk to me. There's the ambivalence I feel again. _To __save, __or __not __to __save. _What can you do when someone refuses to be saved?

I'm pondering this question when someone knocks on my door.

When I open the door, Cinna and Portia are both standing there.

"Hello, Peeta." Portia smiles warmly.

"Come, you two," I say tiredly. I'm already in my nightclothes, having hoped to hit the sheets in a few minutes.

"Hanging in there, Champ?" Cinna asks.

"I suppose."

Portia puts a hand on my back. "Have you made your decision? About…" She won't even finish the sentence.

"No," I say shortly.

Cinna looks exasperated. "Well, you haven't got much more time. A lot is riding on your decision. No pressure."

I'm not really sure where their concern is coming from, but hasn't Katniss been the favorite from the beginning? "I'll decide when I'm ready. Good night." I hold the door open for them to leave.

The next morning, we're the first to arrive downstairs in the training center. Haymitch said yesterday that today are the private sessions.

Katniss and I don't talk much – what she said last night deepened the rift between us. At lunch, while we sit eating the regulation bulk-up food – a meat patty in between a bun with sesame seeds on top – they begin calling tributes in. The male from District 1, female, District 2, 3, 4… they all trickle out, and soon they're calling my name. Katniss is lucky – what I wouldn't give for a moment alone. The only time I seem to get them, I'm asleep.

"Peeta Mellark," someone calls in monotone. I stand.

"Remember what Haymitch said about being sure to throw the weights," Katniss says.

My eyebrows shoot up. Is this some kind of code for "I hope you drop a dumbbell on your head"? Or just "good luck"?

I go with the latter. "Thanks. I will. You… shoot straight."

Katniss nods. When it comes down to the wire, maybe she isn't so two-timing after all. Those words could even be mistaken for kind.

Entering the gym is like entering a miniature training center. There's one of each station, archery, edible plants, climbing – weight lifting.

"And so he said, "one more drink couldn't hurt a good fellow." And when it was gone, his face had turned yellow!"

I turn to face the Gamemakers. They each have a flute of wine raised above their heads, and at least three emptied bottle lay forgotten on the large banquet table, the dregs slowly dripping out like crimson tears.

"And the man said, "No harm shall come from one more drink, I think," and when that one was gone, his face had turned pink!"

I clear my throat. They all glance at me, disinterested.

So I walk over to the weight station and grab the biggest one they have. Mistake. It falls from my hands and narrowly misses my foot. I decided to make a show of this, hurling the next best weight about five feet away. It looks more impressive as I work my way down in mass; the last lands right in front of the Gamemakers table.

I stand there uncomfortably for a few minutes, staring at the Gamemakers, considering whether or not to break out the paints. When the song has ended, one of them tells me to go.

I'm not really sure what do afterward, so I just do what I usually do – go find Portia and talk to her. She's not where she usually is, on the couch in the living room on the District 12 floor. So I go up to the roof. I'm sure Effie and or Haymitch are probably somewhere, waiting for a status update, but I need some time to strategize.

Or take a nap. I haven't really owned up to my exhaustion, and last night, compiled the last three late nights have amounted in some heaping total of missed hours of sleep. When I wake up, the sun definitely isn't where it was when I fell asleep. I figure it must be about four o'clock. An hour till dinner. I wander around until I find Haymitch.

I try to tell him about my session, but he holds a hand up. "Hold you horses until we're all together, boy." I wonder who he means when he says "we". "Anyhow," Haymitch continues, "Katniss is holed up in her room. She's probably hiding a heck of a story." He tugs on his collar nervously. I can't even begin to imagine how difficult it is to mentor Katniss. She hasn't shown much enthusiasm for _surviving_.

"What happened at your private session, Haymitch?"

His expression darkens. "It's not really something I like to brag about. But there were twice as many tributes. Almost last out of all of them." He jabs a thumb at his chest. "How ever bad you had it, I had it twice as bad."

I nod and follow him to the dining room.

Katniss and Effie are nowhere to be seen, but Portia and Cinna are already sitting at the table, trading comments and pointing out things on a piece of paper. Designs. I've been wondering what the stylists do in their spare minutes, but when I see the detail on the page, the extensive notations and captions, I know instantly that they have none.

Cinna hastily stows the paper when he sees me looking. All I was able to discern was the outline of a dress, an orange dress. My favorite color orange, too.

"No peeking." Portia shakes a finger at me. "How did it go?"

"I'm not sure that I'm allowed to say quite yet," I say, glancing at Haymitch. "My mentor's instructions. Where's Effie?"

"She went to get Katniss. She and Haymitch have been trying to coax her out of her room for an hour." Cinna looks grim.

"She can't stay away long," I assure him. "She'll starve." And we're no fan of starving in 12.

A few minutes later, a sorry-looking Katniss follows Effie into the dining room. Katniss's face is tear-streaked and red. Her training session couldn't have gone _that _bad – could it?

I raise my eyebrows at Katniss in silent question. She gives her head a barely perceptible shake.

Effie starts up a conversation about something boring, like trees, while I nibble on a piece of bread, trying not to look ravenous. Nobody else is eating, and I don't want to look stupid.

At last, Haymitch quits beating around the bush. He picks up his fork and says, "Okay, enough small talk, just how bad were you today?"

"I don't know that it mattered," I say, pouncing on the chance to speak, and trying to reassure Katniss. She must have had it even worse than I did, having had to go last. "By the time I showed up, no one even bothered to look at me. They were singing some kind of drinking some, I think. So, I threw around some heavy objects until they told me I could go."

"And you, Sweetheart?" Haymitch looks at Katniss, and I can feel everyone around the table brace themselves. _It__can__'__t__be__that__bad,_I tell myself, _I __almost __dropped __a __200 __pound __weight __on __my __foot. __She __probably __just __poked __herself __in __the __eye __with __an __arrow._

"I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers."

* * *

><p><strong>OMG, everytime I do italicized letters, the spaces mysteriously dissapear! UGGHHH. Now I have to fix it... There might be some unspaced words, but it'll probably be because I'm too lazy to fix it. <strong>

**-Seastar**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Sorry, you guys, it's been a damn long time since I've updated. So when I got home, I looked at the last time I'd updated and I was like "Wow. I haven't updated the Other Side in like a month." So I sat down and I wrote all of this in one sitting. My butt fell asleep, but it was worth it. It's short despite my efforts. I have final tomorrow, or else I would have made it longer :( So, y'all can pay me with your reviews :D Now read!**

* * *

><p>Effie looks like she's about to hurl. "You <em>what?<em>"

Katniss is unrepentant. "I hot an arrow at them. Not exactly at them. In their direction. It's like Peeta said, I was shooting and they were ignoring me and I just… I just lost my head, so I shot an apple out of their stupid roast pig's mouth!"

_Let__'__s__not__bring__Peeta__into__this,_I think silently.

Nobody seems to notice her mention of me, though. "And what did they say?" Cinna asks tentatively.

"Nothing," Katniss replies matter-of-factly. "Or, I don't know. I walked out after that."

Effie gasps. "Without being dismissed?" She wears her best _as-if-the-situation-could-get-any-worse_look.

"I dismissed myself."

There is silence at the table for a moment. Deathly, crushing silence, during which I think Katniss had condemned herself beyond being saved. Sure I was angry at the Gamemakers as well, but shooting an arrow at them? Suddenly the sure expression melts off Katniss's face and she looks pale and worried. She can't continue to play tough forever. And I can't let her shot at winning end so soon.

I don't even really understand why I care, but watching Katniss damn herself the way she is like standing by, watching the life slowly ebb out of a wounded soldier during the last battle of a long war, when they've already been through so much. It can't, _won__'__t_ end here for Katniss. I have to help her – or at least try.

"Well, that's that." Haymitch picks up a knife and spreads some butter on his roll. I catch myself blanching. Although I do like Haymitch, to a certain degree, and he was the one with the idea of saving Katniss in the first place, I can't believe or condone his insensitivity. Katniss and I will both be corpses at the end of this week, and all he can think about is his butter. But he's already won the Games. What's it to him?

"Do you think they'll arrest me?" Katniss asks.

"Doubt it," Haymitch admits. "Be a pain to replace you at this stage." It's true, but Katniss doesn't look very convinced.

"What about my family? Will they punish them?"

"Don't think so. Wouldn't make much sense," Haymitch says. His tone is not unkind, but his words are only coincidentally comforting. That's one of the only things I like about Haymitch: He'll tell it to you straight, good or bad.

"See," he continues, "they'd have to reveal what happened in the Training Center for it to have any worthwhile effect on the population. People would need to know what you did. But that can't, since it's a secret, so it'd be a waste of effort. More likely they'll make your life hell in the arena."

Katniss looks at me in despair. "Well, they've already promised to do that to us anyway," I point out.

"Very true," says Haymitch. He doesn't say anything further, but a moment later, he begins chuckling. "What were their faces like?"

Katniss smiles a little, in spite of herself. "Shocked. Terrified. Uh, ridiculous, some of them." I can tell she's having fun with this. "One man tripped backward into a bowl of punch."

Everyone laughs. Tripping backward is the kind of uncoordinated stunt that I thought only I was capable of.

"Well," Effie remarks, "it serves them right. It's their jobs to pay attention to you. And just because you come from District Twelve is no excuse to ignore you. I'm sorry, but that's what I think." She glances around, like she's just now spoken her mind aloud for the very first time.

"I'll get a very bad score," Katniss say ruefully.

"Scores only matter if they're very good; no one pays much attention to the mediocre one. For all they know, you could be hiding your talents to get a low score on purpose, people use that strategy." Portia's words run together, as if she's afraid to point out one of the flaws in the Capitol's perfect scoring system. Is no one allowed to have an opinion here?

"I hope that's how they interpret the four I'll probably get," I say. "Really, is anything less impressive than watching some one throw a heavy ball a couple of yards? One almost landed on my foot," I remember.

Hopefully I won't get a four, but if the Gamemakers judge by memory, then all they'll remember is a semi-attractive, semi-scrawny, semi- even worth remembering boy standing front of them and staring. I notice Katniss grinning at me, and I try to put those thoughts out of my mind.

Effie, Haymitch, Portia and Cinna don't seem to have anything more to say about the private session, so they move on to lighter subject. What Katniss's hair will look like during the interview, which they whisper controversially about, comparing their loafers, what they've seen recently in fashions, which Haymitch looks a little confused about, the weather, they flowers on the table, this and that. I contribute a bit, but most of the topics I know little about.

The only thing they don't really discuss is what Cinna told me about my arena strategy. Katniss is the only one who doesn't know anything about it. She stares moodily down at her plate. She looks happy, then troubled for a brief flash, then content again, like thoughts are a whirlwind that she's been swept up in. I wonder If human beings can read minds, and if I could, what I could fins in Katniss's head.

I am so consumed in deciphering her thoughts that when I finally come back to earth, I realize that my plate is still almost full when it is removed from in front of me. My stomach growls. I'm not getting any more muscular, and I need to pack on the pounds if I plan on surviving the arena for more then a minute.

Ten minutes later, we sit in the same living room we sat in to watch the reaping ceremony, and the opening ceremonies. Now we wait for our training scores. My palm sweat, as usual.

Everyone seems to have left their nervousness and uncertainties at the supper table – but me. The boy tribute from District 1 – Marvel is his name – pulls a nine. The names and scores fly by, and I add them all to my mental catalog. My heart rate speeds with each passing face, and my stomach flips and flops erratically, right along with the scores.

Katniss sits next to me. Her calm is effortless. Probably because she already knows her fate, and she gets to go last.

Rue's face disappears from the screen – she gets a seven, and more than likely I won't be able to beat her – and I immediately register that my name is coming next. I brace myself.

Eight.

I let out a long pent up breath. I'm safe. Eight. In the middle. I think I'll be able to rest easy tonight.

Next is Katniss. Apparently they're eager to get the show over with, because her number is pulled up a lot faster the rest. Eleven.

Effie screams. Katniss's mouth drops open. I throw my arm around Katniss and clap her on the back, like I did my friends back home. Haymitch does the same.

Obviously still shell-shocked, Katniss stammers, "There must be a mistake… How… how could that happen?"

Honestly, I'm surprised, too. Maybe this is how they always judge the tributes. Whoever does the most daring stunts gets the highest score. I won't be around next year to find out. There hasn't been an eleven in years, though.

Of course, there is a different possibility. If Katniss is ahead of the pack, then the others have no choice but to target her. The eleven has made her a threat.

"Guess they liked your temper," Haymitch says to Katniss, grinning happily, as opposed to maliciously, for once. "They've got a show to put on. They need some player with some heat."

Portia leaves Effie, who is straightening her dress, on the couch and comes over to squeeze my shoulder.

"Eight is wonderful. Last year my sister Rianne was a stylist for your district. She came home crying, after the tributes were set into the arena. They'd both gotten twos in training." _And__they__were__dead__within__a__day._

"Katniss, the girl who was on fire," Cinna says, giving Katniss a hug. "Oh, wait until you see your interview dress."

"More flames?" Katniss asks, smiling.

* * *

><p><strong>Well, I hope you liked it! I really need you guys to review! Seriously, if I had one review for every view this story had gotten, I would have around 4 or 5 thousand. It doesn't take that long for every person to type a little feedback, you know? And it make me so happy!<strong>

**Anyway, enough whining. I'm trying to start a new PJatO fic, so I guess I'll be a little preoccupied with that. I'll probably update again Monday or Tuesday. Well, ta ta for now, I guess.**

**-seastar**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Hey everyone :) Well, I felt really bad about not updating this for a LONG time, so I just did a really quick chapter. It's SO short. I'm sorry. Oh well. ANYway. It's my birthday today. I'm not going to say my age XD. Keep you guys guessing. It was a pretty good day, but some REVIEWS will make it better :D. **

* * *

><p>After the score revealing, it's time for bed. Katniss vacates immediately, as if she can't any longer stand the sight of us. Her smile for Cinna has simply vanished. He and Portia try to urge me on with her, to converse, something, but I shake my head. I have a headache.<p>

"Peeta," Cinna says, "I was thinking…"

I look at him, glare at him, really. I'm sure he's going to say something about Katniss. "I was thinking, too, Cinna. I thought I was thinking I figure all of this out. Maybe I can, maybe I can't, but either way, I think I just need to be alone, and not think about Katniss right now."

Cinna looks mildly surprised. "I was just going to remind you about the interviews. I was wondering whether it would be alright if you and Katniss's outfits mirrored each other."

"Oh." I don't really care, but at least he's taking an interest in my interests. "That's… fine. I'm sorry. I…" I trail off.

"It's alright," Cinna says. "I feel your anxiety almost as if it's my own."

"As do I," Portia adds. I can't help but feel as if I'm pushing them away somehow; they act so formal towards me. And they really are concerned for my wellbeing, which is less than I can say for almost anyone else at the Capitol.

"It's just not in my nature," I confess. "Self-preservation, I mean." And it's not. The voice in my head that screams _"Save yourself! Save yourself!" _isn't nearly as loud as it should be. I don't know what I should do.

"You're so noble, Peeta," Portia says, and it's almost palpable, the pain in her voice, and the hollow feeling in her stomach. It's the same feeling that plagues me, every time the realization hits me, over, and over, and over again. _I'm going to die. And there's nothing I can do about it. There's nothing I can do about it but fight. Not even for my self, for someone who I barely even know. Someone I've saved once before. _The insanity of it sinks in once again, but this time I do not cringe away from it. This is what I want, and I am decided.

"It's not so much nobility so much as what I can have on my conscience. The other tributes – their blood, their deaths, on my hands?" I shudder.

Portia nods, teary-eyed. "I understand."

"Perhaps you should stop worrying about them, and start thinking about yourself."

Portia and I stare at Cinna for a moment, nothing else to say. I haven't thought about myself in a while – a _long_ while.

I dismiss myself to bed and start down the hallway. When I reach my room, I close the door forcibly, as if I can shut out all of my problems, as a single door can stop them in their tracks.

It doesn't, of course. They follow me, and creep their way back into my thoughts. I've given up on showering, and just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. _Katniss. _Her name rattles around in my head. I want to save her, right? I want to save myself. Right? I don't know what I want, and that's a problem. I've never known what I wanted exactly. I am reminded of my mother taking my brothers out to the sweets shop that Mr. Donner owned. He was a nice man with a jolly expression, but his eyes were always sad, as though some tragedy had befallen him once.

My mother was prompting me to pick out a treat, so that she could get back to the bakery, were her bread was waiting in the oven. I couldn't decide. So my mother snatched up the closest thing – a bag of taffies – handed it to me, and paid for it. I was ten at the time, so I had enough sense not to tell my mother that I hated taffy, but from then on, I never said a thing to her about my opinion, nor anybody else. If my father wanted to know which cake he should set aside for my birthday, I would shrug and tell him to choose. It wasn't as if I would remember anyway. If a girl asked me to be her valentine, I smiled and took her hand. Let the chips fall where they may, I thought. Now that my life is almost definitely coming to a close, I can't help but think of all the opportunities I've let pass me by. I still feel the longing for the cake with the orange borders and chocolate filling, and I still taste the kiss of girl that I never wanted.

In that moment, I know what I want. I know that when I go into the arena, I will lose my life. I know that no matter what I do, Katniss will lose hers as well. And the chips can fall wherever they want, but I know I will fight to keep myself alive. I will fight for the chance of missed opportunities. Katniss is a warrior – and so am I.

Effie and Haymitch are both sitting at the table with a one-seat buffer in between them. They do seem to be getting along, though. Come to think of it, I haven't heard them doing anything but agreeing since training began.

I get a plate and start shoveling food onto it, tasting a few dishes before I decided whether or not I want it. I like everything, and by the time I've reached the end of the buffet, I've stuffed a roll in my mouth, because there was no rooms left, and a bit of maple syrup from my waffles is overflowing onto my hand. The glass of orange juice in my other hand prevents me from wiping the sticky stuff off, and soon it flows down to my sleeve.

My mentors haven't seen to have noticed my presence, so I make a big show of slamming my food down on the table across from the. Their heads turn in unison to look at me, but they look away just as fast.

I clear my throat. They look again, clearly preoccupied. When I don't say anything for a moment, they go back to talking in hushed whispers. I try again. "I have something I'd like to run by you two."

"Yes, Peeta?" Effie looks expectant.

I take a deep breath. "I… I don't think I want to be trained with Katniss."

Effie looks relieved, like she's been waiting for me to tell her that I've just set a bomb to blow the entire solar system up. "Why is that?"

"I…'" I sigh again. "I don't think I can worry about her fate. I can't control it, and I don't want to."

"You'll feel guilty either way," Haymitch grumbles reassuringly.

_Gee, thanks. _"It's not like either of us is going to live anyway."

"That's what you might think," Haymitch says, putting his glass down, I'm surprised to see that he's actually drinking something other than wine or liquor. There's water in his glass. He must be nursing a hangover – even if he isn't, he being surprisingly nice.

"That's what I thought when I went into the arena," Haymitch continues. "No chance. But did I have a pity party about it?" I knew this was coming. "_No._ Let me tell you –"

Just then, Katniss enters the room. We all fall silent. Effie takes the opportunity to restart her conversation with Haymitch about shoes and hats and things that are to be worn in the arena.

I just stare guiltily at Katniss, who's trying to stuff her breakfast into her mouth like she'll never eat again. I haven't really touched mine, so a pick up a muffin and wolf it down in case Katniss tries to talk to me. She doesn't, just continues loading her mouth with Capitol food. If they just poisoned it all, wouldn't it be so much easier? The last one standing gets the antidote, and we're saved all the trouble?

Effie and Haymitch are eating their own food now, Effie taking sparing little bites while Haymitch loudly slurps soups, which dribbles down his chin.

Katniss finally says. "So… what's going on? You're coaching us on the interviews today, right?"

Haymitch wipes his chin. "That's right," he says.

"You don't have to wait until I'm done," Katniss urges, "I can listen and eat at the same time."

"Well, there's been a change of plans. About our current approach." Haymitch says this as Effie looks awkwardly between the two of us.

"What's that?" Katniss asks.

"Peeta has asked to be coached separately."

* * *

><p><strong>There. Just a filler chapter, really. I don't really have that much to say x). This chapter is really bad, but you just wasted your time reading it (or hopefully you don't think that) you can review! It's the BEST time waster, because it makes me happy! Please? <strong>

**Thanks for reading!**

**-seastar**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Howdy, y'all :) Sorry, this took a long ass time. Oh well. I'm a little bit dissapointed by the review count (though I'm not sure how saying this is going to get me more reviews). So, I encourage you to review! I have to say, I'm kind of proud of this chapter. I like it. Hope you guys do too!**

**Enerzya, your review made me really happy(: I do try really hard to interpret Peeta's thought correctly. It's not perfect, but I'm glad you think it is:D**

**The rest of you: If you want a shoutout (which I think are pretty cool), leave a review! :DD**

* * *

><p>"Good," Katniss is all Katniss says. This is rather anticlimactic, considering what I thought her reaction might be. I guess I shouldn't have been expecting Armageddon. I wont live that long, anyway.<p>

"So, what's the schedule?"

"You'll each have four hours with Effie for presentation, and four with me for content," Haymitch replies. "You'll start with Effie, Katniss – Peeta, you're with me."

Katniss gives me a poorly concealed terrified look – then, apparently remembering that it's my fault that she is being forced to have four hours one-on-one, completely alone time with Effie Trinket, perhaps one of the strangest residents of the Capitol, she gives me a glacial glare.

While Effie and Katniss head off the sitting room on the east side of the district 12 floor, Haymitch leads me to the western one. It's right by the kitchen, and I can smell the sumptuous scents wafting in. My stomach rumbles, even though I've just eaten, as Haymitch asks:

"What do you think about the interviews?"

I stare at him for a moment. "I thought you were going to tell me what to think. You're the mentor."

"I asked you a question, boy." Haymitch returns his flask of who-knows-what to the interior pocket of his coat.

I frown. "No drinking," I command.

Haymitch holds up his hands. "If you're insistent on making this difficult."

I'll give him a piece of my mind. ""I think the interviews are stupid. I think they're a cruel stupid trick, just like the Games. The Capitol tries to create the illusion that they actually care about the tributes as people, not slaughter animals, while the audience becomes more attached. It's probably for betting purposes, too, or for the tributes to size up the competition even more."

Haymitch nods. "Normally, you'd be strung right up for saying what you just have. But I think you've hit the nail right on the nose. Now I want you to answer these next questions honestly." Haymitch proceeds to shoot a bunch of rapid fire questions at me, which I try my best to respond appropriately to.

My mentor scratches his chin and mutters something. "Pretend that I'm Caesar Flickerman," he says thoughtfully. "What do you think of the Capitol so far?"

I take a breath, envisioning myself in the interview chair sitting beside the famous man whose identity Haymitch is assuming. They're nothing alike; Caesar is a prime specimen, if there ever was one, of Capitol eccentricities. Every year, he is decked out in a different color, from head to toe – including his skin. Last year, I think his color was orange, which is my favorite color. But Flickerman ruined it. His suit and skin were a bright, neon-carrot color.

Haymitch is more like a regular district 12 man – if you discount that fact that he is the only resident of the Victor's Village, and he's usually too drunk to do anything except buy more liquor.

"I think it's very interesting," I reply. "It's so… different than my district. There's a lot to familiarize myself with. I've asked a lot of questions, but the people here just look at me like I'm an idiot." The crowd is before me, a sea of the richest, most respected people in the Capitol, an ocean of ridiculous colors and textures – and a flood of laughter.

Caesar/Haymitch chuckles beside me. "It _must_ be pretty strange coming from such a – a subdued district." That's an understatement, and it's so un-Caesar-Flickerman like to make a slight like this that I'm jerked back to reality. The crowd disappears and the chair is suddenly a lot less comfy. "What do you think of the people here?"

"It's a lot more, um, diverse than in my district… I…" I trail off, unsure of what to say next.

Haymitch comes to my rescue, though. "Try and relate the situation to your life at home," he says. "Appeal to the viewers." I wonder if he's always this helpful when he's mildly sober.

"The people here are like…" _Home_, I think to myself, _think of home._ The smell of the refined Capitol rolls reaches my nose. "The people here are like bread. Back home, my father is a baker." The words continue to pour out, and I think Haymitch suppresses a laugh when I say that the tributes from district 4 smell a little fishy. He's smiling, at least.

"That's gold," he decides. "If at all possible, use that in your interview, boy. It's sure to get your sponsors."

I breathe a sigh of relief. Haymitch decides to take a drink, and I don't stop him this time. I guess he deserves it. Never mind the fact that Katniss will have a drunk Haymitch on her hands. Better her than me – at least she knows how to handle him.

"On more thing," Haymitch says, holding out the flask, offering it to me. I've never had liquor before, so I decide to try it. It burns all the way down so that I can trace its path all the way to the pit of my stomach, like fresh-from-the-oven bread, without the benefit of it actually tasting like food. The liquor tastes like something that's already been regurgitated. I look around frantically for something, anything to wash it down with.

"What's that?" I ask in response to Haymitch. Some pans clatter in the kitchen, and Haymitch turns around to see what the racket is. I take the opportunity to rake my sleeve across my tongue and gag.

"I want you to say something about Katniss."

I snort, feeling a little dizzy. I've taken a little too much liquor, and I feel funny. It's almost a light feeling. Excusing the taste, I can see why Haymitch actually likes the stuff. "Derogatory or otherwise?"

"You two are unequivocally tied to each other," Haymitch reminds me. "Think about what Cinna said."

My head swims for a moment. What did Cinna say…? Oh. _Oh._

_No way, _I almost blurt out. But Katniss is already giving herself a hard enough time; she doesn't need me to add to the trouble. "Alright. No promises, but I'll think about it."

The next hour or two passes easily, though Haymitch looks a little bit tipsy. When we meet Katniss and a disgruntled-looking Effie in the dining room for lunch, he doesn't touch the food that is placed in front of him.

"So," I say to Katniss, "how is everything going…?"

Katniss frowns. "Not very well, actually." She doesn't elaborate, and I don't ask her to. I don't have very much to go in terms of non-derogatory things to say about her during the interview.

I try to think of something – I only have today and tomorrow. She's pretty, and even more so when she's done up for the cameras.. That much is obvious. She was the topic of a few lunchtime conversations that I can remember. Even my brothers would stop to watch as she passed by the bakery window with her sister. She's graceful, too. But there's an edge to her that I think keeps anyone from approaching.

Beauty is really the only exterior quality that really counts. I try to list inner values in my head. Kindness? I wouldn't say so. Compassion? That's more my style, as much as it pains me. Sharringness? Givingness? I don't think those are real words, but they don't apply to Katniss anyway.

I'm really starting to panic when gaze catches mine. Her eyes quickly flit away and she begins scowling at something that's not within my line of sight. There's something about her eyes that makes me think of titanium. They probably mine that in one of the rich districts. The color? Maybe. But Haymitch has Seam-grey eyes to match, though, but I think of something else when I see his; flint; something that can throw sparks, start a fire.

Titanium is the strongest metal around. As Effie would say, I'd bet my buttons she's one of the strongest girls around. The strongest I've ever seen. I _do_ admire Katniss for her strength.

I'm thinking I may have found what I've been looking for, something to say, when I see a tear fall from Katniss's eye. For a moment, it's so silent, that I think I can hear it _plop_ onto the carpet. My stomach swoops, and I feel inexplicably guilty, like I am spying, and I've seen something I shouldn't have. I feel guilt and something else, a feeling I've been banishing for a while.

But I ignore that. Maybe Katniss isn't as strong as I thought. At least she's pretty.

Effie escorts me to the other end of the tribute building after lunch.

"Haymitch tells me you've done well with your content session," she says. I can tell that her previous irritation with Katniss and whatever Katniss did to her before lunch hasn't completely dissipated, and she wants to get this over with quickly.

"You could say that." I shrug.

"You're not going to be as much of a monster as Katniss was, then?" asks Effie. "I almost wish she hadn't volunteered for her sister; the little ones are always so timid and well-behaved – except at mealtimes, of course. At lease the other one has enough sense not to put her elbows on the table, but the mouth on her –"

"I don't think Katniss is much of a monster," I say, cutting off Effie's rambling with a frown. "What did she do to you anyway?"

"Oh, it was awful!" I wouldn't have said anything if I'd known I was inviting the woman to have a half-hour long pity-party for herself. Finally, Effie realizes how much time has passed.

"Where has the time gone?" Apparently she's done degrading Katniss. "Well, Peeta, as the male, you haven't much to remember, especially because you're manners are already quite nice."

Effie teaches me how to sit straight in the interview chair, force a laugh, and make appropriate hand gesticulations, which doesn't really seem like a handy skill. Maybe she's just running out of ideas. There's still about fifteen minutes left when Effie asks me what I think of her dress. I resist the urge to slap my forehead.

* * *

><p><strong>LOL, the end was rather un-Peeta like. Next is the interviews! I'm pretty pshyced about that, so I'll try to have that chapter out real soon. In the meantime, I am planning to update Reyna's Rise. I'm not really sure about Flattery, though. If you haven't checked either of the stories I just mentioned out yet, feel free! <strong>

**That's it. I just painted my nails, so typing is kinda hard right now... Thank you, for being my facebook for losers. And thank you guys for reading and reviewing!**

**-seastar**


	13. Author's Note

**Just a note:** In this story, hypothetically, Peeta is not actually in love with Katniss. Yet. He doesn't just walk into the Games thinking, "Oh, well, everything's fine and dandy because I love Katniss for no reason." That never made sense to me. He does, however, at some point in the story, fall in love with Katniss/realize he like/loved her in the first place. Originally, that what I intended to set this story apart from others. If you guys have ever read any of KaKaVegeGurl's work, Tips of Brushes, Blades of Arrows (which, by the way, is pretty awesome. I also hope she doesn't mine my mentioning her), you'll notice that it's really funny, and Peeta just acts a little different, which I think is great. Just to clear that up. And also: my thinking is that Peeta is a human being. It's not like he's never thought of anything rude in his whole life, or that now that he's having a story told in the narrative of his mind that he's going to stop thinking rude stuff. He just doesn't say it out loud, and thinks of that kind of stuff less often than other people (or me at least). It's kind of hard to not make his emotions look fake on the outside, but it's almost like he can't bring himself to say anything deprecating about anyone else. It's natural to him. And I am aware that I'm failing in the "inner-goodness" department. It's not really my thing.

One last thing: _Peeta is a crowd pleaser; I am not._ I don't usually know what to say or when to say it, or how to be funny or anything like that. Peeta and I are polar opposites in that aspect, but I think that's why I like him so much. I'll try my best to make Peeta's character funny and stuff, but I'll probably end up either failing or skipping a bunch of that stuff. I'm really sorry :( You guys don't have to leave any reviews that say "Peeta is so unfunny! I hate this story, and I'm never reading it again!". I'm seriously trying my best. Somebody hurt my feelings by bashing my Peeta (not bashing, exactly, but you get the point. And I'm probably dumb for getting offended). I'm not naming any names, though, so no hard feelings.

That's it :) Thank you guys for continuing to review and make me happy. Peeta thanks you, too! Just to make sure you guys know, don't review this author's note, or you won't be able to review the next chapter when I delete this. If there's something you really want to say, or a burning question you have, just PM me, and I'll reply.

My love for you guys is like poop - I just can't hold it in!

-seastar


	14. Chapter 13

**A/N: Hey, guys! I have a new chapter, finally. This one is longer than some of the rest, so enjoy! I'm looking for a beta reader, so if you're bored, I REALLY, REALLY want one.**

**But before I forget, I want to thank TheWriterFromRavenclaw for being so nice, even when I didn't deserve it :) Don't even try to argue with me, I didn't deserve it. **

**And thanks to everyone who has been following since chapter 1! That's AMAZING. I know I gain and lose reviewers all the time, so I am especially grateful to you guys. **

**DISCLAIMER (which I have forgotten for the past few chapters): I don't own the Hunger Games, though the dialouge from this chapter leans heavily on the text. All character and plot credits go to Suzanne Collins.**

* * *

><p>I go to take a nap after I'm finished with my lesson in etiquette. Effie has thoroughly exhausted me. The room seems ominous, thick with shadows. It is only then that I realize that my quarters have windows. On the train, there was a force field outside the windows. I move to the corner of the room where the orangey light of sunset appears to be seeping in.<p>

There is a window, a tiny little thing, only about a foot wide and a foot long. It doesn't open, and it's only about six inches from the floor. I wonder why I didn't notice it before - it seems so obvious now, but I guess its spark was lost, what with the industrial lighting and several bright lamps.

District 12 is located on the top floor of the training building. I lay on the on the shaggy carpet and watch the people of the Capitol bustling around on the street, their outrageous coloring almost indistinct from this dizzying height. The buildings reflect the sun like a fireball. I squint my eyes shut and after a few minutes, they don't open again.

When I wake up, the sun is gone. The city glows with a sort or unnatural luminescence, the same kind saw when I was on the roof with Katniss a few nights ago, though this is more subdued somehow. There are more cars on the street, and less people traversing the sidewalks.

Effie knocks on my door. "Peeta, love?" Love? She must have really been pleased with my performance this afternoon.

Suppressing a snort, I pull myself upright. "Yes?"

"It's dinnertime. Is Katniss in there with you, too?"

I narrow my eyes. Katniss probably wouldn't be caught dead in here alone with me - and it makes my insides ache to think it. Where could she be? If I were, considering her scores in for the private sessions, I'd probably be plotting a way to pitch myself off the roof. The gamemakers have made Katniss even harder to ignore than Cinna has - which could be a good thing, but it could also be a very, very bad thing. If she's interesting, she's going to draw more sponsors. She'll also draw more enemies. Either way, Katniss is the focal point of these Games.

"No," I reply, "she's not with me. I'll be out in a few minutes, though."

Twenty minutes into dinner, Katniss still hasn't joined us. She clearly has no sympathy for me, because she's left me at Effie and Haymitch's mercy.

"Where is that girl?" Effie wonders. Almost as if in answer, the sound of a dish smashing meets our ears – and another, and another.

Haymitch sighs in frustration, and then curses under his breath. "She won't except help from anyone, will she?" he asks of no one in particular. Maybe he's wrong. She took the bread from me, all those years ago. But she had to. There might be a way to force her to except help again, but I'm coming up dry.

"Go to bed, Peeta," Effie says, waving a hand. I stare at my plate for a moment, debating whether or not to take it with me.

"Order room service," Effie snaps, "go."

Back in my room, I push a few random buttons and I am brought an assortment of cake, pies, and pastries. The sweetness of them does to reflect my mood, I think as I eat. Over dinner, I started thinking about home again – my friends, my parents, even the regulars at the bakery, being served by my crabby mother instead of me, and knowing exactly why, and that it'll never be me behind the counter again.

I just realized that my girlfriend May – If I really am allowed to call her that; we broke up about two weeks before the reaping – never came to say goodbye. Or maybe she did, and there wasn't time for me to see her. Maybe I just forgot, lost her face in my teary recollection of the day. My neighbors, the Cartwrights, didn't show either. Neither did Greasy Sae, or Darius. I wonder how many of them defected to see Katniss instead.

I'm so lonely in that moment, it becomes hard to breathe. Nobody wants me, not even Katniss, who must feel the same way as I do. Better no one's company than mine. I cry myself to sleep, knowing that tonight will be one of my last.

When I wake up the next morning, my prep team is hover over me. I close my eyes again, thinking that this is some kind of weird dream. Then Rubio's deep voice resonates in the room. "Just look at his eyes." Something cold, a claw-like fingernail, probably, prods the skin beneath my eyelid. "Is there anything you can do about that, Gretchen?"

Gretchen seems to wince. "We could make it up so it looks like somebody punched him in the eye," she suggests.

"No, no, no." Gretchen says. "He already has that bruise on his cheek that we have to cover up. We may as well cover those bags up, too."

"Peeta, dear, wake up." Gloria shakes my shoulder. As if I weren't already awake, though I'd give anything not to be.

I don't open my eyes, but scowl. Rubio chuckles. "We can start on you now, if you like."

I groan. "No, no. I'm ready."

I barely have time to rub my eyes before I am pounced on by my preps. They scrub me down again, because apparently I'm cable of keeping myself reasonably clean, pluck my eyebrows, curl my eyelashes, slather my face with makeup, and do my hair. This whole process takes about three hours, a surprisingly, agonizingly long time.

As hard as I'm trying not to be, I'm nervous. I wish all of this were behind me, that we could simply skip the interviews and go straight to the arena. Especially after last night. It seems cliché, but I know what I'm going to say about Katniss during the interview. And it wasn't Haymitch's badgering over dinner – it came to me in a dream. And it makes my heart race to think about it.

Finally, Portia comes in holding a long black bag on a hanger. She smiles at what the team has done with me, the faint-but-fiery highlights to my blonde hair, which I think looks terrible, but they all insist looks wonderful, the glow they've mysteriously added to me face.

"What's in the bag, Portia?" I ask, curious.

"I was hoping you'd ask." She's grinning now, and I have a bad feeling.

"Does it light on fire?" I ask. "Blow up?"

"No." Portia draws the bag off the hanger and its contents the way someone would unsheathe a sword.

What I see is unbelievable. What I see is unlike anything I've ever seen before. I can't imagine where this thing has come from, but I know I don't ever want it to go back. It's gaudy, yes, but something about it takes me in.

I usually don't give much thought to what I wear, but if I had the chance, I would prance around district 12 all day in this suit. It gives off the same affect as the chariot outfits did, only a bit more subtle. The flames seem to leap off the sleeves and cuff of this suit, ready to spark a blazing inferno.

Portia sees me gawking. "It's wonderful. Cinna came up with the idea. Do you like it?"

I nod mutely.

Much to my disappointment, once I am in the suit, the appeal has significantly vanished. It is hot and itchy and heavy. I have to keep moving my shoulder to make it fit more comfortably. And the boy inside the suit – well he isn't as manly-looking as he could be.

Portia stands on her toes and smoothes my hair. I hadn't realized I was so tall; maybe she is just short. "Peeta Mellark, the burning boy," she whispers. "You'd steal the show, if it weren't for Katniss. Her dress is _gorgeous_."

I'm not much a show-stopper, but Katniss is, and for that I am grateful.

The minutes creep by, slower and slower, as Portia puts some finishing touches on me, sews a fallen button back in place, tucks one of my socks in.

"Are you nervous?" she asks.

I lie. "No. Not at all."

"That's my boy." She pecks me on the cheek.

Once Portia is finished with me, we head to out customary meeting spot, the elevator. My jaw almost drops when I see Katniss, but I clamp my mouth shut. She looks – I am at a total loss for words, so I look away. None of the other tributes will be able to hold a candle to her, thought, not even me.

Effie and Haymitch are all dolled up for the occasion. Someone wrestled Haymitch into a bowtie, and his hair is combed, and Effie is wearing violet contacts in addition to her everyday-wear.

"Well… You two look… well," Haymitch offers by way of compliment. He's not examining how we look in our costumes, but instead choosing to count the floor tiles.

Katniss scoots away from him when he tries to shake her hand, or something. I'm surprised she's that good on heels.

Portia presses a button in the elevator that we usually leave alone. It's gold, rimmed in silver, and has a bold, italicized capitol _**S **_on it.

The elevator doors slide open after a ride of about forty-five seconds. Apparently the _s _stands for stage, because what lies before us is the biggest theater I've ever seen. Tribute are being lined up by district, girl, boy, girl, boy, girl, then girl again, a stylist I think.

Haymitch sneaks up behind me and Katniss just as we're taking our place in line.

"Remember," he whispers fiercely, "you're still a happy pair. So act like it."

Operative: word _"act". _This is news to me. The last time I even spoke to Katniss was two or three nights ago. But Haymitch has too much riding on the fact that we're some sort of couple. Placid, as opposed to tense or venomous, looks toward each other isn't enough.

I wait for Katniss to take the cue, but when I look from Haymitch to her, she's already striding confidently ahead. I shrug at Haymitch.

It's when we take out seats that my heart starts _pound, pound, pounding_ in my chest. Caesar Flickerman roams the stage already, wildly gesticulating, welcoming the crowd and the home viewers. This is a mandatory program in all of Panem. Shutting your eyes and not watching isn't even an option. Last year, I remember, at interview time, I was hurrying home from the Rooba, the butcher's. The program started just as I opened the front door of the bakery, and all I could hear in the town square was the round of applause for Mr. Flickerman, his voice, weirdly synchronized as if he were speaking at the same time as an identical twin, exuding from the old television sets in the neighbor's houses.

The population of the Capitol is a brainwashed people. They holler and cheer for their slaughterhouse animals just as they would their champions. We are not champions. We are victims.

The tributes flash before my eyes. I try to wipe my sweaty hands off on the couch without being noticed. I watch the girl from district 1, the boy, both from 2 and 3. I zone out until the girl from 11, trying to predict and determine what I will say during my interview. I do manage to keep my breathing even, though, even when I realize that I've dwindled my time down to a mere stub, like an overused piece of chalk.

To my right, Katniss looks serene. It might ruin her composure, but I think I should tell her what I plan to say.

"Katniss," I barely whisper. She keeps looking straight ahead. "Katniss." Either she's too nervous to hear me, which I doubt, or she's ignoring me.

Soon, their calling Katniss Everdeen. My heart does a somersault, and then kick starts again at twice normal speed. I clamp my hands together to keep them from shaking. I listen attentively, but Katniss say nothing about me. I wonder if she just omitted that part.

All too soon, her three minutes of interview time is up.

_Peeta Mellark. _I hear my name and think, _I can't do this. I can't._ I come on stage, smiling, trying to deceive myself and think that my nervousness is nothing but a stupid stomachache. I drop down ungracefully, for lack of support in my knees, in the chair beside Caesar's.

"Hello, Peeta," Mr. Flickerman says, shaking my hand. "Your fellow tribute Katniss tells me that she likes the lamb stew here. Are you partial to any particular food here?"

_This is gold. _My mind flashes back to Haymitch's face in the sitting room. I take a breath. "The bread here is unlike anything I've ever had before. Back home, my father is a baker."

"Oh, wonderful! So, you're used to the finer baked delicacies?"

"I thought so, but the dinner rolls back home can't even hold a candle to the ones here. Sorry dad."

Caesar chuckles and the audience takes their cue from him. "So, what stands out in particular to you, here in the Capitol?"

"The people, definitely, I would say. Just the diversity. I think of them like bread. If you've ever tasted the rolls from district four, you'd know that they're a bit fishy, no offense."

"Well, well." Caesar wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "Anything else come to mind?"

"The showers are a close second." I tell him about my predicaments with the showers and show him the bruise on my elbow, which is mostly healed by now.

Caesar tells me that the mint julep shampoo is his favorite. I reply by telling him that I hate the rose, remembering a stream of bright pink gel squirting from a hidden nozzle somewhere and landing right in my mouth. Everyone chuckles and Caesar say he feel my pain.

"Tell me, do I still smell like roses?"

"I'm not sure." Mr. Flickerman stands and gives my head a sniff. The audience gives a sudden burst off laughter, and I find myself catching a whiff of mint julep.

"You smell like mint," I note. Another big laugh.

"Alright," Caesar says, sitting back down. "Let's reel it in. You have a girlfriend back home, correct?"

I think of May, her eyes probably riveted to the TV right now, then of what I have to say next. My stomach flips, and my brain sends a spastic signal to the muscles in my neck that make me shake my head.

"Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?"

I sigh. "Well, there is this one girl. I've had a crush on her for as long as I can remember. But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the reaping." Not a lie, not the truth. I find the word pouring out of my mouth, the tongue within it trying to beat the clock. The crowd says, _"Aww…"_

"She have another fellow?" Caesar asks.

"I don't know, but a lot of boys like her." I frown.

"So, here's what you do. You win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, eh?" Caesar elbows me encouragingly.

"I don't think it's going to work out," I say, wishing I could take the words back. "Winning… won't help in my case."

"Why ever not?" Mr. Flickerman seems incredulous.

The blood rushes to my face, and I hate myself for saying, "Because… because… she came here with me." I can't help looking at Katniss. She looks utterly astonished.

"Oh, that is a piece of bad luck!" says Caesar.

"It's not good," I agree.

"Well, I don't think any of us could blame you. It'd be hard not to fall for that young lady." He has _no_ idea. "She didn't know until now?"

I shake my head. "Not until now."

"Wouldn't you love to pull her back out here and get a response?" Caesar smiles when the audience roars with excitement. "Sadly, rules are rules. Katniss Everdeen's time has been spent. Well, best of luck to you, Peeta Mellark, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours."

The sounds of the crowd ruthlessly pound my ears as I exit the stage.

* * *

><p><strong>I'm REALLY sorry for the un-funny, un-Peetaish dialouge, again. It's the best I can do. It's so pitiful! x( Anway, things have been a little hectic for me at school, so I don't know when I'll update next. I am really glad that I got the interviews out of the way, though. It's after that the real action takes place, so stick around!<strong>

**Thanks for reading!**

**-seastar**


	15. Chapter 14

**A/N: A new chapter! Yay! That was fast, you have to admit. Happy almost Valentine's day! I have a little bit of entomology for you:**

_**Valentine - noun: ****1. a card or gift expressing love or affection, sent, often anonymously, to one's sweetheart or satirically to a friend, on Saint Valentine's Day **_

_**2. a sweetheart selected for such a greeting**_

***Sigh* Forever alone. Anyway. I was in a really good mood today, so I just decided to write, and write, and write, with no regards to the fact that I actually have homework and a life. Whatever. I was just kidding about the life part. I just made myself really excited by watching the Hunger Games movie trailer. I am really hyped. Tell me what you guys think about the movie in a review! I think Josh Hutcherson is too sexy to be Peeta. Just kidding. He's perfect. I never would have thought Jennifer Lawrence for Katniss, but she is an amazing actress. And I'm off on a tangent.**

**Disclaimer (I remembered!): I don't own the Hunger Games. Now read! **

* * *

><p>"Thank you," I manage to say as I take my seat. It takes Caesar several minutes to quiet the crowd. During the anthem, I notice that Katniss's face is still beet red.<p>

I try to find her after the crowd begins to disperse and the tributes are instructed to make their way back to the center, but she's gone faster than I thought to be possible. I knew I should have warned her.

The elevators fill up quickly. I try to make it to a car, keeping my head down, but I feel the others' stares. One girl, Glimmer for district 1 I think, in a shimmering, almost transparent gold dress puts her hand under my chin and jerks my head up to look at her.

She smiles, sugary-sweet. "A shame you like that girl from Twelve," she says, "you're kinda cute."

I jerk away from her. She'd be even prettier with the black eye I want to give her. Or not. The Career tributes snicker, poke me and prod me, until finally it's only the little girl, Rue, and the crippled boy from districts 10 and 11 in the car with me.

"What you did was brave," Rue says with a smile. "Donovan thinks so, too."

"Yeah? Well, I think both of your interviews went a lot better than mine." I smile at her. She's so small. The boy leans heavily on crutches. Most of his training time will and has probably been used for physical therapy of some sort, but it's heart-breakingly obvious that his days are spent.

The elevator twice and deposits the two children on their floors. Only I am left. I see Katniss immediately when the doors open. Across the way, standing outside the elevator opposite mine, her eyes are blazing almost as brightly as her dress.

Before I have time to think of what to say to her, or even process what is happening, she is coming toward me, arms in front of her. She shoves me, putting all of her weight into it. I stumble backward, and slip on either the hem of my trousers or on the newly-waxed floor, I don't know which, but it doesn't matter, because within the next second, I'm on the ground. A brownish gray flowerpot goes down with me, and blood pools from my hands.

"What was that for?" I demand, anger slowly rising in me.

"You had no right!" Katniss screams. "No right to say those things about me!"

Before I can respond, the elevator doors slide open behind me and I hear Portia gasps. Pain spikes in my hands.

"What's going on?" Effie asks, and though I can't yet see her, I know that she's holding her hand to her heart in terror. "Did you fall?"

"After she shoved me," I retort. Cinna grabs me under the arms and Effie places her hand on my back. They haul me a standing position.

Haymitch, who's now in front of me, glares accusatorily at Katniss. "Shoved him?"

"This was your idea, wasn't it?" Katniss growls like she's seeing red. The only red I'm seeing is flowing from my hands. "Turning me into some kind of fools in front of the entire country?"

"It was my idea," I lie, yanking a bloody shard of clay from between my index and middle fingers. I don't know why – it was Haymitch's idea, after all, but Katniss already hates him enough. "Haymitch just helped me with it." He can't go entirely blameless, though.

"Yes, Haymitch is very helpful," Katniss snaps. "To you!"

I want to shout, I want to pull the stupid veil from Katniss's eyes that make her think that the entire world is working against her, wants to hurt her, and I want to make her see my real intentions, but Haymitch decides to take Katniss's words personally.

"You _are_ a fool. Do you think he _hurt_ you? That boy just gave you something you could never achieve on your own." Portia distractedly produces a pair of tweezers from somewhere on her person and starts working on my palms.

"He made me look weak!" I wince as Cinna extracts a piece of gore-splattered pottery from my hand and Katniss's voice rises to a screech. Effie has her hands on my shoulders.

"He made you look desirable!" Haymitch shouts, "and lets face it, you can use all the help you can get in that department. You were about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted you. Now they all do. You're all they can talk about. The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve!"

"But we're not star-crossed lovers!" Correction: We're not lovers at all. If Katniss hates me enough to push me into an urn, then I doubt we ever will be.

"Haymitch pushes Katniss's shoulders against the wall. They are both breathing hard, practically spitting with rage. "Who cares?" Haymitch roars. "It's all a big show. It's all how you're perceived. The most I could say about your interview was that you were nice enough, but that in itself was a small miracle. Now I can say you're a heartbreaker. Oh, oh, oh, how the boys back home fall longingly at your feet. Which do you think will get you more sponsors?"

Katniss pushes Haymitch away, the same way she did me into the urn and steps away, sinking onto one hip.

Cinna walks away from me to Katniss and put his arm on her shoulders. "He's right Katniss," Cinna says calmly. I can't believe he has any sympathy for her.

"I don't know what to think," Katniss confesses. "I should have been told, so I didn't look stupid."

"No, your reaction was perfect," Portia says. So I was right in not telling Katniss. "If you'd known, it would have read as real." My stylist's posture has relaxed and she smiles earnestly at Katniss. My counter-part's temper seems to have cooled.

Mine has not. "She's just worried about her boyfriend," I say viciously. Portia has started dabbing ointment on my still-bleeding cuts. I toss a piece of pottery that she forgot.

"I don't have a boyfriend." Katniss's blushing belies her words.

"Whatever." She clearly hasn't heard the way Gale talks about her, like she's his property or something. "But I bet he's smart enough to see a bluff when he sees it." In other words, my performance in declaring my unwavering love to Katniss on national television could have been better. I had almost convinced myself. Almost. "Besides, you didn't say _you_ loved _me_." But maybe I'd like her to. "So what does it matter?"

The look on Katniss's face is contrite. She still doesn't offer me a formal apology. "After he said he loved me, did you think I could be in love with him, too?"

"I did," Portia speaks up. "The way you avoided looking at the cameras, the blush." So now my angle looks appealing. I suppose I should take what I get, though. At least maybe Katniss is willing to work with me.

"I though it was very convincing," Effie adds.

"You're golden, Sweetheart," Haymitch says. "You're going to have sponsors lined up along the block."

Katniss looks at me. "I'm sorry I shoved you," she says grudgingly, not meeting my eyes.

"Doesn't matter. Although technically, it's illegal." Nothing can be done about it now.

"Are you hands okay?"

"They'll be alright." And it doesn't make things any better by staying angry. I hate myself for forgiving her, but there's something in Katniss's manner that is completely sincere for once.

Haymitch proposes that we eat, and though the sight of my own bodily fluid on the floor has significantly decreased my appetite, I follow the rest of our party into the dining room.

My hands feel like I'm pressing hot iron to them, but when I clench them to stop the pain, blood oozes from in between my fingers. I try to stem the flow with my napkin, but soon that's covered in blood, too. The white table cloth becomes spotted with red by my plate.

Before even the first course come, Portia says, "Peeta, perhaps we ought to take you to the infirmary." Reluctantly, I rise from the table and follow her.

"What do you think this is going to mean for me?" I ask Portia as we walked down the hallway towards the elevator. I'm guessing that the infirmary is downstairs where the training center is.

"What do you mean?" Portia asks.

She must know what I'm talking about. "What is this going to mean for me in the arena, Portia? We're going in tomorrow." This thought has been slowly eating all other thoughts from my mind.

Portia sighs. "I don't know. It depends on what they decide to treat you with. It's up to them. I assume that because it was an accident, you'll be almost completely healed my morning. If it were, say, a self-inflicted injury, more than likely they'd turn you down point-blank."

"Will it be much of a setback?" I step into the elevator.

"For you?" Portia smiles. "Nothing could set you back."

Once on the lower floor, Portia heads to a wing that I've never been in before. We pass a closet full of used training dummies. One has arrows protruding from all the bull's eye targets – on the right hand, left hand, though where the heart would be, and one in the dead center of the forehead. I remember Katniss doing that one. Ten seconds flat, it must have been. I'd never seen anything like it.

I find myself smiling, and I don't know why. Katniss? No. She's the reason I'm down here, my hands dripping with blood, missing my dinner. But still…

Portia gives me a look. "Are you smiling?"

I automatically frown. "No."

Portia shakes her head and pushes a door open in front of us. "Edmund?"

A blonde head pops up from behind a desk. This is the infirmary? It looks like an office. "Portia, dear. Long time no see. But I supposed that's a good thing. What seems to be the problem?"

Portia gestures to me, and not realizing that I'm standing only a few inches away, she punches me in the stomach.

I cringe. Portia is still looking at Edmund, beaming. "It's Peeta here, the District Twelve tribute?"

"He's yours?" Edmund asks. "He made quite a show of himself during the chariot ride. And the interviews? I couldn't believe my ears! Or eyes. I should have known that you were the mastermind behind the designs, though."

Portia blushes. "IT was Cinna's idea." She bats her eyelashes.

I clear my throat, remind her of my presence. I'm not meaning to be insensitive to Portia and her sweetheart, but my hands are killing me.

"Right." Portia finds my shoulder without looking at me, still. "Peeta, um, tripped and fell into an urn the lobby. Clumsy little thing."

Edmund nods. "Follow me back here please, Peeta."

The blonde man opens a door that I barely noticed before. It looks like a pencil outline on the stark-white walls. I step around the desk and enter the room.

It's like a science lab has been shrunken and shoved into a space barely big enough to accommodate it. There are empty test tubes and beakers practically spilling out of the cabinets, as well as full ones.

"Excuse the mess," Edmund says from one corner of the room. He seems to be assembling some kind of weird robot. He snaps pieces into place without even looking. "I take the chance to experiment whenever it's given, and things sometimes get out of hand. Come."

Edmund takes the bloodied napkin from my hands after snapping some surgical gloves into place on his hands. He presses down on my each of the cuts to see if there is any glass left inside. It takes all I have not to yowl in pain.

Next, he places my hands on the tray of his machine and presses a button. A black enclosure forms around my hands and restrains my wrists.

"Don't move for thirty seconds," Edmunds instructs, rifling around in a cupboard. A glass beaker falls and shatters.

Portia has wandered in. She steps around the broken glass. "Fascinating…"

The contraption hears up and cools down fills up with warm water, and blow dries my hands. The skin feels tighter when Edmund presses the button again and I am released.

"Flex your hands a bit, so that the new skin has a chance to stretch." So that's what he's done. Given me new skin. I can tell it's not my own. It's pinkish, like a blush, and satiny smooth. I wince as something pos, like dry skin splitting.

Edmund smirks. "I was afraid that would happen. We'll have to bandage your hands until the fresh collagen bonds to your body's natural collagen."

Once my hands are bandaged, we leave. Back in the elevator, I ask Portia, "You like him?"

She smiles. "I guess you could say that."

* * *

><p><strong>It's shorter than the last one. And it ended dumbly. That's okay, I guess. I was pretty pissed about reviews this time. The chapter has like a hundred something views, so I know people are reading it (although I can't really say how many are my own), so shouldn't have a hundred something REviews? Anyway, I'm in a good mood, so I'm going to harp on that. But I REALLY, REALLY want reviews! And thank you to those who actually did review. So, yeah. And also, if you're willing to beta for me, I want a beta :)<strong>

**Thanks for reading!**

**-seastar**


	16. Chapter 15

**A/N: Hey, guys.**

**I was really dissapointed by the reviews. Last chapter, I got 1 review! That is the kind of stuff that makes me cry :'( And like 130 people read the chapter? I'm, like, dying. So, I have a proposal: Let's try to set a record! The most reviews for one chapter! I've never seen any with more than, like, 50, but I am an inexperienced fanfictioneer. If 130 people read the last chapter, and everyone reviewed, that would be 130 reviews! And that is what's gonna help break the record. So I challenge YOU to review :D  
>And that was really corny. Needless to say, I am desperate for reviews. PLEASE, I AM BEGGING YOU!<strong>

**On that un-pitiful note...**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.**

* * *

><p><strong>EDIT: The famous Roof Scene! Yay! I forgot to add it, almost. I know I <em>completly<em> didn't do it justice, not at all, but it's in here.**

* * *

><p>Portia's blush has dissipated by the time we reach the table again. Platters and places and bowls are stacked on top of the bloodstains on the tablecloth.<p>

Of course we had to have soup tonight, which actually requires some dexterity to consume, instead of pizza, or, I don't know, hardboiled eggs.

After struggling with the spoon for a few minutes, and dripping pink soup down my front, I skip the appetizer, which everyone else at the table has already completed, and go for the main course, which is roast beef. Portia and Cinna, who sit on either side of me, actually take turns spooning things into my mouth, smiling at each other. Katniss looks guilty, her eyes skirting mine whenever I look at her. I know I shouldn't feel this way, but I am grateful for her guilt. Humility is a likeable trait.

Haymitch and Effie, once again, have nothing but praise to voice. Our performances were spot-on, complementing each other the way tea and crumpets do, according to Effie. Haymitch even admits that, because the general public knows nothing about the idiocy that took place afterwards, that both of the interviews, especially mine, went exceptionally well. Maybe he's just lying.

I try to eat as slowly and as much as I can, talking as little as This is probably the last real meal that Katniss and I are going to get before we go into the arena tomorrow. Who knows what they'll give us for breakfast, assuming I'll be able to keep it down.

Focusing on the present conversation becomes harder and harder as I start to delve deeper into thoughts of what tomorrow might bring. I zone in and out, coming back only at lulls in the discussion. _Twenty-four hours. _Twenty-four hours from now, I will be in the arena. Heck, it's eight 'o clock. Twelve hours more likely. Twelve hours from now, more likely.

Effie says that a tape of the interviews is waiting for us in the sitting room. I sit in the same chair as last time and try to get comfortable – this is probably the last nice chair I'll ever get to sit in. This is probably the last thing I'll ever watch on television. This is probably the last time I'll ever see Effie or Haymitch; as soon as the interview rerun is over, they'll be on their way to the Games Headquarters.

By the time I come back to myself, the boy tribute from District 5 is already up. It doesn't really matter, though. The only interviews want to see a replay of are mine and Katniss.

Portia claps her hands and Cinna smiles at his handiwork when Katniss walks onto the stage. Her name flashed beneath her chin, and I watch her talk about lamb stew and model her dress for Caesar Flickerman.

Katniss's interview passes without a hitch, though she grits her teeth throughout the whole thing. Portia assures her that she looks amazing and Effie even says that her bearing was excellent, thanks to her. Then it's my turn. At first, I am taken aback by my appearance, and the tremulous applause that the crowd emits. _Who is this boy? _I think to myself. He smiles, and he's actually _handsome_. I see him trip over a camera wire, and I know who is again. I wince, but no one else seems to notice.

I want to turn my ears off for my interview. I hear every mispronounced word, stutter and stupid joke, and see every flaw with exponential intensity. Portia gives me a hug when it's over and whispers, "my perfect Peeta," in my ear. Perfect?

When the final buzzer sounds, and the anthem plays, we all stand. Cinna whispers to Portia and she laughs. I can't help thinking that maybe he noticed me trip.

I don't have anymore time to dwell on that thought, though, because Effie grabs my hand, and Katniss's, too.

"Our time together has come to a close," she begins, as though scripted, "I wish the both of you well." Apparently then, she then decides to veer off course, or rip the script up and throw it away, because her eyes fill with tears and she say, "Truly, both of your were the best tributes I have eve had the honor of escorting thus far. I wouldn't be at all surprised if I finally get promoted to a decent district next year!"

After Effie leaves purplish lipstick marks of Katniss and my cheeks, we turn to Haymitch to bid us adieu.

He stares at me as I wipe my cheek. "Any final words of advice?" I suggest, realizing that a hug, or any show of affection is completely out of the question.

Haymitch surprises me by actually answering with something other than a head headshake. I suppose I shouldn't discount the fact that he's already won the Hunger Games himself.

"When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there. Neither of you is up to the bloodbath at the Cornucopia." He looks at my hands. "Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between you and the others, and fins a source of water. Got it?"

Was I just imagining it, or did he say your_selves _and the others? Does that mean that he wants me and Katniss to stick together, or that he think we intend to stay together? Or was he simply addressing us both and thinking nothing of it?

"And after that?" Katniss asks.

"Stay alive," Haymitch repeats grimly. He said that same thing in the dining car what seems like an eternity ago, right before I almost smashed a wine glass on his foot, and Katniss tried to stab him with a knife. Only this time, he isn't joking or drunk. He is stone-cold sober and he means it.

Katniss nods, looking forlorn, and exits the room. She has a lot of cleaning up to do. I realize that still have my interview suit on as well. There is dried blood on the sleeve cuffs. Maybe Portia can clean it up. She in Cinna still sitting in their chairs, silent.

Portia looks like she is about to cry. "Do you really love her Peeta? Because this is one of the last times she'll ever see you and she still looks to – _platonic_." She spits the last words through her tears, which started somewhere around "_last"_.

Cinna holds her in his arms and rubs small circles on Portia's back, soothing her, probably whispering things she likes, like "_taffeta_," or, "_satin_." I can help thinking she'd be happy with someone like him. She told me that she likes Edmund, but she can't even see that Cinna truly cares for her. Haymitch still leans on the TV set, looking outwardly amused and uninterested, but his I see his ears perk up when I speak.

"I don't know how I feel about her. Maybe I would in time – but I don't have anymore of that. Neither does Katniss. She's just making it easier on the both of us."

"But the way you – what you said in the interview," Portia sobs. "She didn't even act _interested_."

I wasn't ever expecting her to. "Maybe she isn't. It doesn't matter."

"Cinna, you've _got_ to say something to her tomorrow," Portia begs. "It's the last chance Peeta has…"

"Maybe Peeta is right," Cinna says. "I think it'd be better if he just let it go. After all we've already done to help her, it would only hinder Katniss to have an attachment to Peeta in the arena."

"But if they protected each other –"

"Only one of us can win. Portia, I really do appreciate you trying to make me happy," I say past the lump in my throat, "but it's too late." And because I don't want to spend the last night of my life bawling, I leave the sitting room, without saying an actual goodbye to Haymitch or Cinna, who I won't be seeing again, without trying to comfort Portia, and without shedding a single tear.

It is too quiet when I roll into bed. Far too quiet. I could at least hear Effie and Haymitch conversing at dinner, Portia crying her eyes out in the sitting room, and the patter of the water on the floor in the shower, but now, there is no sound. Nothing to be heard. Silent as the grave. I wonder if the grave really is silent, or if you can hear the groans of the dead around you – and yourself. I will find out soon enough, assuming there is enough of my body left to bury. Some tributes are blown to smithereens, or gobble up by some wile beast.

I: hope my family won't miss me too much. I Or my friends. No, I don't think they will miss me. I had a lot back home – people seemed drawn to me, and I was drawn to people – but I am fairly sure none of them were loyal. Maybe Delly. She and I have – _had_ – been friends for a long time. Maybe Madge and Milton will miss me.

My listless train of thought takes me place that I don't want to go – heaven, hell, the seam, the town, the fields beyond the fence in 12. I'll never know what truly lies behind it, though my fantasies are wild. Katniss does, though, I'm willing to bet. She probably knows every inch of those woods. I feel like my life has lacked something fundamental. I don't know anything, or anyone – not beyond the shadow of a doubt. I haven't been in love, not really. Had girlfriends, sure, but, as much as I am loathe to admit it, I never felt anything _real_ for any them. I'll never have children or, have my own house, or – well there isn't really that much more to life in District 12. I'll never bake another cake.

_I will not cry. _Tears come rushing to my eyes. It has to have been at least an hour since I switched the lights off and tried to close my eyes. I'm tired, but I can't sleep. I can't sleep, but I'm tired. I get up and look in the mirror. My eyes are wild, and I don't look like me. This isn't the same boy who swaggered onto the stage in a flaming suit, confident if imperfect. I never thought of myself as the kind of person who would lose control like this – but then again, I never would have thought that I would be here, where I am: the Capitol in all it's splendor; the room, the food, the luxuries. And of course, I am a tribute in the Hunger Games. It all comes at a price.

My arm swings out. I don't know how, don't remember picking it up, don't remember the moment of impact, just a thought: _I've lost everything else, what's the mirror, too? _Glass shatters. The bandages on my hands protect them, but a shard snags my left leg. A thin trickle of blood slithers its way down my leg, like a red river. I collapse on the floor. That's seven years' bad luck a voice tells me somewhere in my head. I don't have anywhere near seven years left.

I don't know how long I lay there, breathing hard, not paying attention to where the glass also lies. The hours slip away, and eventually, I get back into bed. I am resigned to the fact that I am going to die. I was so resolved about it before. Now that the reality is hitting me, I am not so calm. It doesn't seem real. Maybe this is all just a dream, and I'll wake up, back home, safe.

I do wake, eventually, but I am not home. My mother isn't hollering downstairs in the bakery, the smell of bread is absent, and the mockingjays aren't singing.

Sometime during the night, the glass has been cleaned up. I wonder if someone heard the crash and came to clear the mess, or if attendants come at regular intervals during the night to check on the tributes. There _are_ plenty of ways one could kill oneself. I'm sure some tributes have attempted it. But there are always twenty-four tributes when the Games begin. The Capitol must circumvent their plans somehow.

I feel calmer somehow; the mirror is gone. I have no way of seeing the reflection of the boy I thought I knew. But if I can't find myself now, I'll never get the chance.

I am Peeta Mellark. My parents own the bakery in District 12. I have two brothers. I like baking and sunsets and sleeping with the windows open and I always double-knot my shoelaces. I have - had - a girlfriend. My neighbors are the Cartwrights. Gale and Katniss bring my father squirrels. That day in the rain, when I was younger, I burned that bread for Katniss.

I sigh. Sixteen years and that is all that I can say. That is my identity. In District 12, that seemed like enough. Here? It counts as nothing.

I want to get out of this room, though there is no place to go. Except one.

Up on the roof, the air is cool. Car horns are blaring loudly, and the lights are bright, so bright that I understand why there is only window in my room; I would never be able to sleep - it's like noon out here. That, among other reasons.

I lean out as far as I can over the edge of the roof. My head strike the force field, and I jerk back, electrical shock zinging through my body. I catch a lilting melody, floating on the breeze, and stop to listen. There are no words, just music, strangely quiet and subdued among the car noises, growls and honks.

There are more people than cars on the street tonight - they wear colors brighter than the sun - day-glo green, orange, and yellow. I hear snatches of sentences, words like "74th", "Tribute", "Katniss", "Star-crossed lovers", and most surprising of all "Peeta". Maybe I _have_made an identity for myself, here, in the Capitol. Maybe that's not who I want to be. I can't live a lie – I hardly even like Katniss, let alone love her. Admire, her, maybe, but love… It's could maybe be the tiniest bit plausible, but highly unlikely.

"You should be getting some sleep." I nearly fall forward into to the force field, the voice surprises me so much. It's Katniss, obviously - I recognize her voice, and she's the only person stupid enough to come up here at in one in the morning, besides me. Of course she'd appear the moment a thought of her drifted into my mind.

"I didn't want to miss the party," I say after a minute. "It's for us after all."

Katniss has come up next to me and looks over the roof's edge. "Are they in costumes?" she asks.

"Who could tell?" I snort. "With all the clothes they wear here." I can't believe how incredibly normal it feels, conversing here with Katniss. It's hard to tell with her, but I think she's turned over as new a leaf as she can muster up.

"Couldn't sleep either?" I ask.

"Couldn't turn my mind off," Katniss answers, her shoulders sagging.

"Thinking about your family?"

"No," she admits. "All I can do is wonder about tomorrow. Which is pointless of course." She pauses. "I really am sorry about your hands."

"It doesn't matter, Katniss," I say, sighing. "I've never been a contender in these Games anyway."

"That's no way to be thinking," Katniss says.

"Why not?" I have long ago accepted the fact that I will not get out of the Games alive, she know that as well as I do, and her sympathy isn't making me feel any better. "It's true. My best hope is not to disgrace myself and…" I don't want to die as somebody else, locked inside Peeta Mellark's body. I can't say that, though.

"And what?" Katniss prompts.

"I don't know how to say it exactly. Only… I want to die as myself. Does that make sense?" I don't want to be someone who smashes mirrors, or loses control, or snaps at girls, even when they injure his hands. I don't want to be angry. "I don't want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of monster that I'm not."

Maybe Katniss isn't the person to tell this; she was the one who pushed my into the flower pot – she must think that I'm at least a little bit monstrous. She says, "Do you mean you won't kill anyone?"

"No," I admit. "When the time comes, I'm sure that I'll kill just like everybody else. I can't go down without a fight. Only keep wishing I could think of a way to show the Capitol they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in their Games."

"But your not," Katniss says. "None of us are. That's just how the Games work."

"Okay," I agree, "but within that framework. There's still you, and there's still me. Don't you see?"

"A little. Only… no offense, but who cares, Peeta?"

So I was wrong. I was wrong all along about Katniss. I feel a twinge of sadness. She's not really a warrior; she's just a girl. I'm just a boy. We are nothing but two kids, mourning the loss of their lives, little blacks specs in the grand scheme of things.

"I do." I care. "I mean, what else am I allowed to care about at this point?" They've taken everything. Everything. I want to keep one little, tiny shred of dignity.

"Care about what Haymitch said," Katniss answers. "About staying alive."

Her words are gentle, and don't warrant my harsh response, but I am angry, angry that I was deluded by a little, short girl who brought my father tasty squirrels. I am angry that I thought she was more than that, like she would be different, or see things my way. No one ever does. That's why my mother hated me so much . That's why I had no real, true friends at home. I don't want the anger to come, but I can't supress it.

"Okay. Thanks for the tip, _sweetheart_."

Katniss steps back. "Look, if you want to spend the last hours of your life planning some noble death in the arena, that's your choice. I want to spend mine in District Twelve."

"Wouldn't surprise me if you do. Give my mother my best when you make it back, will you?" Maybe she'll rip your heart out like you ripped out mine, if she ever care anough about me.

"Count on it." Katniss's voice is short, and she leaves the roof.

I am seething. I throw a slipper at the force field. It bounces back and lands at my feet. The smell of burnt cloth stings my nose. I feel my hair. Crumbling strands come away one my fingers. Hopefully Portia will be able to fix it.

I still can't believe that I thought Katniss was different. She'll probably turn into one of those raging beast tributes, the ones that try to eat someone's heart out after they've killed them. Whatever plans of helping her in the arena I formulated have evaporated, like I've ripped the blueprints and tossed them away in the wind, or burned them.

Sleep becomes impossible, so I pace around the room. I check the window. It's difficult to tell what time it is – there are always lights on in the Capitol, and the sky in the same color from dusk until dawn; a washed-out, faded blue color. It must be near dawn, because as I watch, some of street lights go out. Portia opens the door.

"Oh," she says, surprised to see me on the floor. "It's time."

* * *

><p><strong>I was really bored, so I updated again. I have homework, though. Peeta isn't really Peeta-ish in this chapter, but he can't be saint-like <em>all<em> the time:)**

**I sound really whiny at the begining. Sorry:( Please review! ****Thanks! ^^**

**-seastar**


	17. Chapter 16

**A/N: Sorry for the late update. I was being way to nice to an asshole of a girl, while also spreading the joy of the Hunger Games, so I lent the asshole my copy of the book. So I don't have the actual book, and I'm being forced to use the Kindle Fire belonging to one of my family members instead. Anyway, I saw the Hunger Games movie! I was SO AMAZING! They cut out a lot of stuff, but it was still amazing! I could not contain myself during the Cave scene, when they kissed and Gale was watching. It was _the best _moment of my life. Team Peeta: 1; Team Gale: -576390. Guess that shows where my loyalties lie x) I'm sorry this chapter totally sucks and was completely not worth the wait. I'll try to update sooner. Now READ. **

* * *

><p>Portia's holding what looks like it could be a body bag on a hanger. Maybe it is a body bag - there's probably loads of extras lying around somewhere for us dead tributes.<p>

Peeta, I mentally scold myself, you have to stop thinking like this. The bag is nothing more than a protective cover for a skin tight - jumpsuit. I refuse to call is a leotard. Portia orders me to go put it on.

"We have to go to the roof," Portia informs me. Then she narrows her eyes at me. "What happened to you arm?"

I look down at my bicep. There's a jagged gash, not bloody, not at all, but gaping open and raw and pink on the muscle, which bulges bigger than I've ever seen it in all my sixteen years.

I'm debating whether to tell her the truth, that I completely lost is and hit a mirror and shard of glass caught me on the arm, or make something up, like I hit it on the counter in the bathroom.

Portia is too perceptive. "Take a look at yourself in the mirror," she says, placing her hands on her hips.

"I can't," I mumble.

"What?"

"I can't," I repeat louder.

"What happened?" Portia asks with artificial confusion in her voice. Portia didn't even have to be there; she's sees right through me, and in her mind, it is clear as crystal what happened.

"Stop interrogating me," I say, heading toward the door.

Portia follows behind me, speaking quickly and angrily, telling me off – "What happened to the brave boy I knew yesterday, the one who confessed his love for Katniss Everdeen on live national television, probably lying through his teeth about it, but still trying to protect her, for old times' sake?" – but I'm not listening.

The churning whirlpool of emotions inside me – the feelings that I have not been able to quash, the ones that have been following me around like a dark, hovering storm cloud – haven't subsided. The storm has calmed or broken, like I've been praying it would. I still don't know, and that's what is bothering me. The fact that I'll never know. The fact that I keep dwelling on the fact that I'll never know is equally troubling.

Walking this hallway is like walking the plank. It's the end of the line, the end of safety. I'm diving into a choppy sea that is teeming with sharks. I'm doing nothing but rocking the boat with my thoughts, stirring up the water. I try to calm down.

My prep team says goodbye fleetingly on the roof as the hovercraft rotates. Rubio, through his tears and running purple eyeliner and mascara, explains that Katniss and Cinna are on the opposite side of the craft; Portia and I will occupy the one that is facing us now.

A ladder descends from a hatch in the vessel, and Portia and I make out ascent up and up. Gloria and Gretchen, tiny as babies or small children from my vantage point now, are waving white handkerchiefs in the air. I watch them flap around, like fluttering white flags of surrender. I don't wave goodbye.

A woman in a white lab coat greets us with a friendly grin. She brandishes a metal syringe. I can't see what's in it.

"Hold still!" she says in a high, cherubic voice, like she's speaking to a child. "The less you move, the less it will hurt!"

_She's pretty_, I think, just before she stabs me with the needle. I cringe. Her violet eyes are still on me. Her only Capitol alteration is her dark skin, like Rue's and Thresh's, which is in stark contrast with her hair and eyes. Or maybe her hair, which is the same shade of blonde as mine (Portia has been telling me that she's jealous) And her eyes are the alterations; I can't really be sure. She looks awfully young, though.

Either way, her vivid eyes are locked on mine the whole time she's pressing the plunger into my skin. I don't even think she knows what she's doing.

"I can't believe I actually get to meet you," she gushes. "I came from District Eleven, but there was this Peacekeeper who twisted his ankle in the orchard – long story – but he said that my medical skills were good enough to come here, and even though I have to start with District Twelve, I just know things will get better!"

I break my gaze away from her uncomfortably. "Great," I say. Apparently the Peacekeeper she helped failed to take of note of her over-the-top enthusiasm.

"Come on, Peeta," Portia says, tearing my stinging arm away from the grip of the attendant.

"Happy Hunger Games!" she calls to our backs.

Once she leads me a room in the back of hovercraft with a _12 _on the door.

Portia busies herself setting up my things – she has to have everything perfect before she even begins prepping. She talks me through the entire process, and it's like I've already done it before we've actually started: First, she do my hair up – it needs to be cut a little shorter so the other tributes won't have a handhold. The girls are at a disadvantage. I think of Katniss and her long brown-black braid. Her especially.

I can't help but doubt Portia's skills with a pair of scissors and electric shears. I know she's an expert at this sort of thing, but her hands are not normally very steady – she made Rubio do my lip liner because her hands were so shaky.

When I voice my concerns, she smacks my shoulder and jacks up the chair with her foot. I like this chair. It's like a personal elevator. The Herberts, owned the barber shop in town, had a chair like this, but it was old and cracked, and the black leather had long faded to a muted brown. The elevation feature - I'm not sure what its official name is – was probably shot, but I never knew to try it.

Just like Portia told me, next she has to do my makeup. I don't really think that it matter – at all, in the slightest bit – how I look when I go into the arena, but she says I have to look presentable. The bruise that Haymitch gave me still hasn't completely faded, so she covers that up. I tell her not to – everyone who is going to see it already has, and maybe it give the Capitol people and the Gamemakers something to complain about. Portia also has to cover up the dark circles under my eyes. There's no point in letting everybody know that I might die of exhaustion. It'll ward sponsors off.

Lastly, Portia gives me a jacket to wear. It's warm, slightly heavy, but it won't impair any movement. I stick my hands in the pocket. I won't be needing any gloves if it gets cold. But there's something wedged in the soft folds of the pocket. Have I worn this jacket before? I don't recognize the stiff, slippery nylon material. I wrap my fingers around the object. It's small, round, an in or two in thickness. I draw it out of my pocket. Three cookies. Chocolate chip, like the ones the mayor had us make on his wife and daughter's birthdays. I'd never even tried one until I came to the Capitol. I know now why Madge and her mother liked them so much.

I'm smiling as I remove the plastic from the package. Portia, who has been smoothing her hair in the mirror, turns around and looks at me in alarm.

"No!" she cries.

The smile drops off my face. "What?" I ask, rattled.

"Those aren't for now," Portia says, reaching out and depositing the cookies in the inner pocket of my jacket and zipping it up to the neck for me. "I want you to save them – for later. They might… help."

It's cheating. She's cheating. Portia is cheating for me. Risking her life.

"I can't take them," I say going for the zipper. "You'll get yourself killed, or worse."

Portia's hand shoots out and grabs mine. "No," she says firmly. "It's ,y gift to you. And it's not as if it's never been done. Do you remember the time the girl from One had that ring? The one that had lethal poison hidden in it? Nothing happened to her stylist."

Portia is talking way too fast. I can tell that she doesn't believe herself. "That was District One. We're District Twelve. You're not helping me, Portia, your condemning yourself." _And I can't live – or die – with that on my conscience._ The old Peeta speaks in my head. The one that's not the Capitol-crazed monster that reared it's ugly head last night. The one who's determined to be something more than a piece in the Games. The one who questions himself too much. The choice between him and the choice between the boy that I saw last night is easy.

Portia's eyes are shining with tears. "Take them."

The door bursts open. Portia wipes her eyes as two Avox girls come in, wheeling carts of food behind them.

As we eat – Portia practically has to force-feed me – the girls stand silently, watching with their hands behind their backs. It is apparent that tributes and stylists have tried to sneak food into the arena before.

Once we're through eating, Portia takes me the Launch Room. From here, it's into the arena for me. For a crazy minute, I think, what if I make it back? If there was more than the barest sliver of a chance that I could return to District Twelve, take Haymitch's place as mentor, have plenty of food and want for nothing.

Then I think, that's not the life for me. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I was the only one who made it out. I think it's called survivor's guilt. We learned about it in school a while ago. Sometimes, after an explosion in the coal mines, it wracks the minds and bodies of the remaining workers. I've seen what it does to people; there aren't many miners living in town, but I remember seeing one, crying behind the bakery, screaming, reaching, sprawled on the ground, legs pumping, running through an unseen expanse of dark tunnels. I'd rather die than suffer that fate. The miner didn't have a choice. But I do.

I'm glad the old Peeta is back.

Portia refuses to stop fussing with me. It is announced that there is five minutes before the launch. Then three. Two.

"Remember, find shelter and food and water and don't even think about going near those Career tributes. They're nasty. I've met their stylists. Blood-thirsty beasts. And Katniss –" Portia breaks off. No one's discussed the assumed alliance between her and me lately.

"I think we'll just go our separate ways," I say to her with a tight smile. Except on the off chance that I make it through the first day. I'll look out for her.

_One minute_. Portia takes my hand. "Don't forget, stay on the your circle until it's time. Be careful, Peeta."

_Ten, nine, eight. _"I will." _Seven, six, five_. A glass tube starts gliding up from the floor, encasing me like a live specimen for study. My hand slips from Portia's. She mouths the words "_good bye_".

_Four._

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

The tube begins ascending upward, into the unknown.

* * *

><p><strong>That was so lame and short. GRRR. Anyway, I'm kinda proud of myself. There's 61 email alerts for this fic. That's the best I've gotten on an of my stories so far, and it's a pretty good alert to view ratio. 10% or something. The review to view ratio is a different, sadder (which isn't a word) story. So you can review and make it up to me! <strong>**Cough, cough, hint, hint. Fun Fact: While filming the Hunger Games, Josh Hutcherson (who plays Peeta and is a hunk) was bored, or something, so he went into Jennifer Lawrence's trailer bathroom and left the dummy of a swollen, trackerjacker-stung Glimmer. Later on, she really had to pee, I guess, so she went in the bathroom, saw the dummy, screamed, and peed her pants. Good one, Josh. **

**The above story is totally pointless. Moving on. I really want a beta reader for this story. With reservations. Let me explain: I've had a beta reader before, one of my other stories. What basically happened was, I sent to chapter to her, she checked it or whatever, and I ended getting the chapter out three days later than I wanted. I was thinking that, this time, if anyone is willing, that we could collab write or something. Like, I send you part of the chapter that I'm working on, and you add stuff or give suggestions to make it better kinda thing. I am REALLY hoping that someone would be willing to do this. You don't have to meet the site's beta-ing requirement (yes, I am undermining the site's rules and restrictions). You just have to be on the computer all the time, and have an insatiable desire to waste daylight hours, like me. So PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PM me if you're interesting in doing that. PLEASE. **

**That's all :) Thanks for reading, and review, please!**

**-seastar**


	18. Chapter 17

**A/N: Howdy, all. Yeah. The next chapter. Cool, right? Anyway, I just wanted to say, I think it's awesome that so many people are reading this. It's pretty cool. Y'all can't see the stats, but like 50-100 people read this story every day. And at least one person reviews everyday, which is not nearly enough in my opinion, but it's something :) I really want more revieeeewwss. Like, more than a hundred. That would be awesome. Because you know what happens? When people are just browsing though Hunger Games fanfiction, they see a fanfiction that has, like, only one review, and, no offense, probably no one is going to read that if there's one that has 500 reviews underneath it. I'm really complainy today, but I know you guys can do better than this. You know how many people have viewed this story? Around 12,000. I could have 12,000 reviews? That would be awesome. So if you view, REview. Pleeeasees?  
>Anway, this chapter is really short :( And it's kinda sucky, so... yeah. But I am really thankful for the people who review through the suckiness. I've actually been replying to reviews, which is sorta rare. Anyway, you can read now.<br>**

* * *

><p>My eyes are squeezed shut when I emerged into the lit expanse of the arena – I only realize this when pinkish light filters through my lids. I open them quickly – once the glass that surrounds me is gone, I will no longer be protected.<p>

The arena is spread out before me, and it's almost like I have a panoramic view of the earth: I stand on the edge of a thick, wooded forest that spreads itself behind me in a mass of green leaves and foliage; in front of me, beyond the other tributes, there's desert and tall grasses. All that's missing, according to my 6th grade world geography textbook, is the tundra. I guess I should be thankful for that.

There's a field full of… is that wheat? I doubt there'd ever be such an easy food source. Still… I think I may check it out. Take my chances. As a baker, I pride myself on knowing practically every way under the sun to handle grain or flour.

Amid the pounding of my heart and the unbearably loud silence of the the glass enclosure, which is slowly descending back into the ground, inch by inch, I hear sloshing sounds, rocks clicking together and being smoothed into pebbles. A river. Water. The sound comes from all directions.

I hear the sounds of the wildlife, too. The glass is almost gone. There a loud ticking, like a time bomb, counting down the seconds, and I look to the center of the arena, the pivot-point that we, all twenty-four of us, are fixed around.

The Cornucopia.

It's huge, bigger than could ever be captured or justified on out small screen at home, shining and golden. I have a sudden, vague memory of watching the Games as a twelve-year-old, sitting, wedged in between my father and brother on the couch, which is still where my mother decided to put it when she first moved into the bakery with my father in their younger, pre-children days. On the landing of the steps down to the bakery's oven room, with the TV straight across from it. Whenever you wanted to get into the house, you'd have to shimmy past the two pieces of furniture. After my brother fell asleep on the couch and took a tumble down the steps in the middle of the night, Dad put it in his room. That is almost definitely where my family is right now, crowded on the bed, watching, tense.

In my reminiscence, my father whispers, "God forbid any of you boys should ever have to see that in person." I wonder if he remembers that night.

I focus back on the present. There are backpacks and food and everything imaginable for survival spilling out of the mouth of the gigantic horn. But I've been instructed to stay out of the "blood bath", as Haymitch so appropriately dubbed the preliminary scuffle for supplies at the beginning of every Games that usually results in the deaths of at least five tributes. His words, not mine. I guess my next best bet is that field.

The last thing I have time to notice is the tributes. Katniss is five or six to my left. She is looking intently at a pile of equipment. Following her line of sight, it becomes clear what she's looking at: a bow and arrows. Glimmer is eyeing it as well.

I begin shaking my head frantically, though there is only a slim chance that Katniss will actually think of looking at me. She must've heard Haymitch's directions. I her mind, apparently, they don't apply to a bow and arrow. Glimmer won't be nearly as dangerous with them as Katniss would be. Her eyes float to mine.

All these thoughts whip past in rapid-fire succession. I poise myself to run for it. I've thrown away any and all the rough, blue print sketches of strategies, tactics for this impending moment. I now realize how stupid that was.

The gong sounds. My legs are carrying me in the direction I need to go before my brain even registers the noise. Footstep, footsteps, pounding footfalls and flying dust. Forget Katniss. I run as low to ground as possible. I'm a bit alarmed by my speed as my arm sweeps along the ground to pick up whatever supplies happen to be in my path. I never have, have never _had_ to run on pure adrenaline.

It takes me a few seconds to realize that two other tributes are barreling in the same direction as I am, toward the field as well, keeping their distance from the Cornucopia and the Careers. One is Thresh from District 11, Rue's meaty counterpart and one of the few who outclassed me in weight.

I see only a flash of red hair from the other tribute about thirty yards ahead of me before my hands snags on something and I am momentarily distracted.

I don't look – just keep running. I don't think my legs will let me stop, and for a moment, I am seized by the unreasonable fear that I will never be able to stop, that I'll keep running until I get to the edge of the arena and hit the force field that prevent tributes from escaping and just die that way. But I'm not even in the clear yet, and it's hard to tell how much further away that is. I hear a grunt, a scream and a sadistic laugh. Someone's been skewered. One down (at least), twenty-three to go.

I've been dancing outside the circle of metal plates around the Cornucopia, dodging the occasional tree, but the scenery is beginning to vary. There's a patch or two of grass, at first sparse and scraggly, then more insistent. Soon, it's almost like I'm in two worlds at once, the right half of me engulfed in tall stalks, wheat-like stalks, and the left half of me in the lush forest.

I've been tearing through the wilderness for at least an hour, more likely two or three, when my stomach starts cramping. Then I get a stitch in my side. I can't've have burned myself out already – back home I ran on the cross-country team; I was the best one, could run for hours on end, on an empty stomach, even, when there wasn't enough bread to spare for the day. The Capitol food hasn't done me any favors. My stomach longs for some sustenance, any source of energy. It has become used to bigger meals and proportions every few hours.

I slow to a jog, but after a few minutes I have to slow even that to a snail's pace. I'm panting, hard, but I can't seem to get much air into my lungs. My vision starts to blur and sit down.

I've veered further into the grassy section of the arena. There are sounds like the babbling of a brook coming from somewhere behind me and I spot a water bird overhead, it's beak glinting in the light, one of its blue tail feathers fluttering down to the earth like a leaf or a forgotten shred of paper.

I take this opportunity search through the bag from the Cornucopia. The contents does not disappoint: there's a hunting knife; a cap, which seems stupid, but it's some kind of head protection – if I get out of here alive, at least I won't have a sunburn; two blankets – maybe one is lay out on the ground and the other to cover up with?; some kind of antiseptic, either rubbing alcohol or peroxide, which will definitely come in handy; four apples; and a net, weighted with little lead balls, like the kind the gladiators used in ancient Rome. That's a nice little touch, an allusion that I'm sure the people in the Capitol will have a laugh about. Sick.

There one item that is confusing to me: a stray arrow. I didn't even see a bow anywhere, but maybe this pack was meant for the person who got hold of it. _Katniss_. I shove it to the bottom of the pack.

My stomach is growling so loudly that I think it might start scaring the birds away. My throat is dry, so I start to head toward the river.

The sun is pacing itself across the afternoon sky, tiptoeing closer and closer the western edge of the horizon. I walk, dragging my feet, but my destination doesn't seems to be getting any closer.

It's moments like this, I realize, that I've been dreading ever since Effie picked my name from the reaping bowl. The Capitol ensures each and every tribute, excluding the victor, of course, a brutal death, but that isn't enough. Never enough. They make us wait in fear and terror for the inevitable and the uncertainty of death. I wonder what it will be like. I wonder if everyone goes to the same place, or it there's a heaven and a fiery pit. If there is, I'm going down. I'm sure of it. There is so much more I could have done.

The only thing that I don't regret, that I feel was a sufficient good deed, is Katniss with the bread. She's still alive. But what about all of the other starving citizens - no, prisoners - of District 12? The ones who died deaths even worse than this, slowly of hunger pains, watering mouths and watering stomachs, running to town with a spare coin only to find the bakery shut up for the night. Their lifeless faces pressed against the glass, the light gone from their eyes. Their families coming to find them, the coin still clutched in stiff fingers, offered up to my mother while I stood behind the counter and watched her turn them down for lack of fair wage.

his memory, this long lost thought dredged up as if from the bottom of a mucky lake, is strangling me. I can't breathe. I'm drowning in the terrifying realization that I am no better than the poor Seam family is the bakery that morning three years ago. I must succumb to death, same as them, and it's appalling, petrifying and paralyzing.

have to do something to distract from the emptiness in the pit of my stomach. My legs have been moving mechanically toward and I now stand at the bank of the river. It's high ground. Without even thinking, without even considering how deep the water is or how jagged the rocks maybe, I jump in. Anything, _anything_ to get rid of this feeling.

The water swirls and bubbles around me in an almost symphonic cacophony and, too late, I think of the cookies in my pocket. I'm submerged only up to my waist and they're wrapped in plastic. Hopefully, I'll be able to salvage them.

The water is cool, pleasant almost, but the current is ripping and swift and hard to resist. I am being pulled downstream. It's shallow and I keep ramming my shins into rocks and tree roots. Great. I haven't even come in contact with any other tributes yet and I'm already bruised up.

The current gets progressively faster, faster, faster, the water becomes frothier and the sounds become louder. I let it drag me, though. Drowning won't be too bad a death. My heart is working double time.

I grit my teeth as I tumble over a pile of rocks and my head is submerged. I am thankful for my negligence: I didn't bother taking my shoes off, or rolling up the cuffs of my pants. If I did, the skin would be punctured and bleeding. At least the Gamemakers gave us sturdy clothes.

The river has become much wider. The rapids are passing and the water is calming. Thankfully, my hands are still grasping my pack. Everything in there should be sufficiently waterproof.

I don't think I'm in the river anymore. There are lily pads and minnows floating lazily on and under the reflective surface. The bed is squishy and soft, muddy. My shoes get sucked in and make a slurping suction-cup noise when I pull them out.

The sky is getting darker. I'm still thirsty, but I don't drink. It's impossible to tell whether the water is safe unless you decontaminate it with something. That's something I learned in the training center.

There's a beach surrounding the lake that I've floated into, and I wade my way up onto it. From here, you can see from shore to shore. I scan the area. I'm so tired from my trek earlier that I think I hear laughing. There's nothing even remotely funny about that.

I ignore it at first, but the sound, a high pitched giggle, an occasional baritone chuckle and deep belly laugh, persists. Then I see it. Out in the distance, a flicker of movement, heading in my direction.

I shouldn't even stick around to see what it is, but I do. People. Tributes. _Careers_. Now I'm running.

Something whizzes over my head and sticks at an angle in the ground. An arrow. My immediate first thought is Katniss. Has she teamed up with the Careers? Then I think, if that really was Katniss, I would be dead right now, shot right through the eye, most likely. She never misses. And besides, with her 11 in training, they wouldn't hesitate to kill, not on the first day. As far as the Careers are concerned, the sooner she's out of the way, the better.

I hear splashing behind me. They're about as stealthy as a combined herd of hippos, rhinos, and elephants. Then again, they don't have to stealthy – just deadly. Another arrow flies through the air, whistling by my ear.

"Glimmer!" someone barks, a girl. "Glimmer, you don't have that many arrows to waste! Cut it out and kill him the right way!"

I'm out of breath, my clothes and pack are weighing heavily on my speed, and the Career tributes are catching up too fast. I guess this is it.

I whirl around and throw my hands up in surrender.

* * *

><p><strong>It's so short and lame that I want to cry! I'm sorry. Anyway, before I forget, I am still looking for a beta reader (you people are so stingy with your time), so if anybody is willing to give up five minutes a day (again, because you've already wasted your time reading this), PLEASE PM me. I really want one! :'( <strong>

**Thanks for reading! Lena'sghostlostinthemoonlight, you're awesome!**

**-seatar**


	19. Chapter 18

**A/N: OMG, guys. :) I know it's been forever since I've updated, but I have been working tirelessly on this chapter the enitre time. It's hard to believe, but I'm just a really slow writer. Anyway, I have two pieces of good news!: 1) I got a beta reader! Sanctuaria is awesome :D 2) I actually forgot what I was going to say, so let's just it's good that I'm updating. AGH. I'm so tired. Reviews = me happy. This = lamest author's note ever. Now you can read.  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Cato is the first to reach me, snickering. "What do we have here?" he asks the others grinning. The boy from District 3 – even in my panic, his name just appears in my head – Comet – races up, wet from the lake, panting, with the girl from 4, Ruby, on his heels. I'm a little bit surprised to see her, as she never really was with the rest of the Career group for more than a few days during training. She was clearly named for her hair – for a fleeting second, I think she might have dyed it that color, but I don't think they can really afford hair in dye 4. I should really be focusing on the other kind of dying - or not dying, rather - so I try to steer my mind out of that trivial direction and start formulating a plan to escape.<p>

Which immediately fails when Cato grabs my arms and puts me in a headlock. I feel the joint in my shoulder strain and pop violently out of place. A cry of pain escapes my mouth. Cato laughs and pushes me to the ground. I get a mouthful of wet earth. I pick up my head and spit it on his shoes. He responds my kicking more dirt in my face.

"Is that a love bird you've caught, Cato?" Clove has emerged from the water, relatively dry. "I wonder how it'll taste."

"Like chicken," Cato laughs. Clove giggles. "Marvel, hold his legs, will you?"

"That's cannibalism," someone points out. A giraffe-like girl with dark blonde hair is standing behind Ruby, gazing distastefully at the back of her head.

"What's that, Star?" Comet asks, glaring over his shoulder at the girl. I'm still trying to blink the dirt out of my eyes.

"I said that's cannibalism," Star repeats, louder this time. "You can't eat him.

"We're not going to eat him," Cato snarls. I'm already starting to realize something: he's the ringleader. His word is law, and while you might have wit on your side, like Star, he has brute force on his. "He's going to be our compass. Where's your girlfriend, huh, lover boy?" The cleats of his boot press into my neck. "Which way?"

"I don't know," I choke out to the dirt. I would say the same thing if I actually did know where Katniss was, but I am telling the truth – I can only hope they believe me.

"Don't believe him," Marvel sneers from my feet. "He's obviously lying – I can hear it in his voice. I bet he was just meeting up with her and when we came, and he told her to run."

"How sweet." Clove scoffs.

"I… don't… _know_!" I repeat, thrashing my legs around. Even Marvel, with his huge, bulging biceps that are trademark of the Careers, can't hold them down. Not with his hands, anyway. I can't exactly see, but judging by the weight and the relative padding of the object that has settled just below my ankles, Marvel has become fed up and is now sitting on me. He could shed a few pounds.

"You heard him," a new voice says. "He doesn't know where she is. Get off him, Marvel."

"You're just sore because Martin didn't make it through the first five minutes," Star says, obviously annoyed.

Ruby sniffs. "He was my friend." I'm surprised to hear this. Ruby and her District partner were friends, and yet they chose not to exploit that angle. But they didn't have to – in their minds, it was a weakness for others to manipulate; for me, it's a method of survival. A method of survival that happens to be backfiring right now.

"Well, you'll be joining him soon enough, Red," Clove says, dismissing the other girl. "Where's Glimmer?"

As if in answer, an arrow buries itself in the ground about ten feet from my face.

"What the – Glimmer!" Clove shouts. Cato and Marvel burst out laughing and another arrow lands practically on top of the first one. "Don't just sit there!" Clove orders, "get him up before she accidentally shoots him in the head!"

Cato and Marvel hoist me off the ground, holding me above their heads like someone might hold a wooden plank. I catch sight of Glimmer before my vision starts blurring from the pain in my shoulder. She's nocking another arrow.  
>I hear Clove grunt - I guess she's pulling the first two airborne missiles out of the soil - and yells, "Glimmer! Glimmer, stop! We don't have that many arrows to spare, you idiot! Besides, you'd probably hit Marvel or Cato before you hit Lover Boy!"<p>

"I'm a good shot!" Glimmer whines.

"Right. Even with your glasses on, you can barely skim the broadside of a barn. How are those contacts working for you, by the way?"

I feel like groaning, but my shoulder hurts too much for even that. It must have become dislocated when Cato grabbed me. It's frustrating, infuriating, almost, how trivial Glimmer and Clove's conversation is, like all this really is a game in which they are both guaranteed a spot on the winner's podium, whether it's the victor's place or not.

I hear Glimmer stomping through the water, obviously still hacked off at Clove. All I can see is the sky, which is turning a deep orange, though whether it's due to nature, or simply my eyes, is unclear.

"They work just fine, thank you very much," Glimmer says with a scowl in her voice. "Now, what at are we going to do with him?" Judging by the harsh prod I receive in my back a moment later, I can only assume that "him" is me.

"We could dump him in the lake and drown him," Comet suggests.

"No," Marvel argues, "then we'd have no way of finding the other girl."

"So? Maybe when she finds out, she'll succumb to grief or something and drown herself, too."

"The girl that scored an eleven in training? Yeah, sure."

"It's getting dark," Ruby cuts in. "Why don't we just take him back to camp and decide what to do with him in the morning?"

"She's right," Cato agrees, much surprising everyone in the group, including myself. "Ruby, you can lead the way."

A second later, the ground is under my feet. "You're walking, Lover Boy." Marvel pulls a hunting knife from his boot and holds it to my neck.  
>Cato immediately snatches it from him. There's an obvious power struggle between them. "I'll take care of it," he says, deadly quiet. "I don't think he'll be trying any funny business anyway."<p>

Marvel is silent, probably brooding, and Cato, with his hand on my arm, leads me through the forest like a hostage, which I must admit, I don't actually mind much; I can barely see through my tears - the pain hasn't faded, and it seems to building, like it will soon reach boiling point and explode - and he's steering me around _most_ of the protruding tree roots on the forest floor, for which I am grateful.

Star keeps up a constant stream of chatter, and Comet manages to keep up an equally steady stream of insults. At one point, she says:

"The sky is red... That's good right? "Red sky at night, sailors delight, red sky in morning, sailors take warning"?"

"We're not in District 4, stupid," Comet says. "That saying isn't even true."

"It is, actually," Ruby says quietly. "Back home, whenever we were on the house boat, my dad would tell me that rhyme while we fished. And it was never wrong."  
>No one has anymore to add after that. Ruby has just breached some barrier that no one else has had the courage to. I've been trying not to dwell on the subject: Home.<p>

I am so determined not think about my family, to forget the pain and the fact that I probably have only hours to live, that I've run through the lyrics to every song I know, and rattled off all the nursery rhymes I can think of by the time we've reached the Careers camp.

Cato shoves me onto a sleeping bag. "Don't move," he growls, then points to a pile of knives and various other sharp objects lying in a careless heap about ten feet away from me. "Or you'll wind up with one of those in your back. If you idiots have any brains, you'll get some sleep," he adds, addressing his pack."

"We should set up the tents," Marvel declares, attempting to take up an authoritative tone.

Cato doesn't even bother acknowledging him. "Ruby, can you keep watch for us?"

I notice that he didn't speak as unkindly to Ruby as he did the rest. She answers "Yes" quietly and Cato glares at him for a moment, now sitting cross-legged on his own bedroll. No, he's not glaring. His eyes search her face and he just stares at her with what looks like... Sympathy.

"Good night, Cato," Ruby says softly, smirking in the dimness. The sun is gone and the sky has darkened with twilight. This is probably the best time to rest. Of course, the Careers could probably afford stop and nap at high noon; no one is a threat to them, except the maybe the wild animals, and even they probably wouldn't be more than a minor inconvenience. They are untouchable, unstoppable.  
>But they sleep like babies. Within five minutes, I hear snores exuding from every mouth except Ruby's and Cato's. They speak to each other, though he's bid her good night several times already. The two of them laugh every so often. If I didn't know any better, didn't know that Cato was a ruthless killer, I'd think that he actually liked Ruby. The way that I like Katniss. Or think I do. The thought makes my stomach do a flip.<p>

The words _No more time_ reverberate in my head, over and over. There is no more time to make a decision about how I feel.  
>"Just... Try to stay alive, okay, Ruby?" Cato say, rolling her name off his tongue like a sweet melody.<p>

Ruby yawns loudly. "I'll try. For you," she adds. "Thanks for giving me the graveyard shift, by the way." There's smile in her voice.

"No problem," Cato says, lying down again, hopefully for the last time tonight. I can tell he's smiling, too.

I don't know why I've been listening to their conversation so intently, but suddenly the silence is pressing. The pain in my shoulder flares up and I grit my teeth. The sound of nightingales singing is deceptively peaceful. Every sound that I was deaf to up till a few moments ago is amplified a hundred times. Animals and insects scampering around in the underbrush sounds like a herd of elephants trampling through a plain made of broken glass.  
>I almost jump out of my skin when I feel someone's fingertips lightly skim my elbow. I jerk away reflexively.<p>

"Whoa," someone, a girl, whispers. "Calm down."

"What do you want?" I demand, on the defensive. She doesn't strike me as the violent type, but I am still on edge. This place puts me on edge, or rather, further over the edge than I was. My toes are just barely hugging the edge of a precipice.

"I want to help you." Red hair brushes my face. Ruby is leaning over me, and she places her hands on my shoulders. "Which one is hurting you?" she asks.

"The left one," I tell her. I don't know how she could tell what was ailing me, but that's soon forgotten as her nimble fingers dig into the bone and tendon of my upper arm. I wince. She pokes, prods, and twists repeatedly. "Do you even know what you're doing?"

"My grandpa used to throw his back out of place all the time. I don't think a shoulder is that much different. This might hurt a little, but _do not scream_," she warns.

Just when I am thinking that this will never work, and that the only similarity between a shoulder and back is they are attachments to the human body –  
><em><br>Snap_. I feel something fall back into alignment. I am still waiting, tense, for some kind of pain. I realize my head is crammed up against the base of my neck like a turtle's. Slowly, I lower my shoulders. Nothing. A scraped knee could have been more grueling.  
>I sit and face Ruby, looking her up and down. She has wide brown eyes, giving a sort of deer-in-the-headlights appearance. "How did you know what was wrong with me?" I ask.<p>

Ruby shakes her head. "I don't know… I just sort of figured. But would think that some kind of thanks is in order, you know?"

My mouth curves into a smile for the first time all day. "Thanks, Red."

Ruby smiles back tentatively. "You're welcome. But... I don't like it when they call me Red – they only give nicknames to the ones that Cato thinks are weak." She pauses. "I'm Red, you're Lover Boy, Star is Blondie, and Comet's Brown."

"Brown?" I ask. There's nothing brown about Comet. He has blonde hair, blue eyes, and is as pale and running through the forest all day has made him sunburned as can be.

Ruby shrugs. "I guess it doesn't have to make sense. I mean, he was wearing a brown pack when he met up with us, but Cato took that."

"Sounds to me like he just ran out of colors to choose from," I say, and Ruby laughs a little. It's a welcome sound. "You don't really seem to like them," I note quietly. Except Cato. "You never even really associated with them during training either, did you? So why did you choose to be on their team?"

Ruby shrugs again. "I don't know. It seemed like the best option. I mean, it really was the best option. District Four is considered a Careers district, so I joined up.  
>"I've never really been one for the Games. My parents made me train, but only because they wanted me to be ready if this day came. I talked up the Games to my friends and family, and I – I guess they figured that I didn't want anyone to volunteer for me. At least, that's what I keep telling myself."<p>

We are silent, listening to the nightlife. It feels strange, but I can't think of anything to say to console her, or anything that even counts as encouraging, though I've had somewhat of an aptitude for it my whole life. "Cato's awfully nice to you," I say finally.

Ruby looks mildly surprised. "Is he? If I recall correctly, he was the one who put me on the night watch."

"Only because he trusts you," I say.

Ruby scoffs. "Only because he wants me to be good and tired when he kills me."

"He knows you won't stab him in the back while he sleeps. Or any of the others. It wasn't even a question in his mind – I could tell."

"That doesn't mean anything. He trusts Clove and he let her sleep."

I shake my head, smiling. They _do_ say love is blind. "You did notice that he's the only one who doesn't call you Red?"

Even in the darkness, I can see her blush. "There are already two more than enough star-crossed lovers in this arena," Ruby says, nudging her arm with my elbow.

The smile falls from my lips. I wonder if I truly am the only one who knows what Katniss and I have is only an act. Could anyone else possibly know, aside from Effie, Haymitch, and our stylists? The story seems so flimsy. Suddenly, Ruby's nudge turns in a conspiratorial gesture. She can't know – can she?

* * *

><p><strong>Is anyone else having serious formatting issues? Sactuaria know what I'm talking about. Is it just my computer? Seriously, I had to space every paragraph in this chapter. It's so annoying. Anyway, the results of my being exhausted is this incredicbly stupid author's note. I just really want reviews and sleep. Help me out, okay? And I know it's pointless fluff at this point, but I promise, it gets better. I actually had a really good time writing this. Hopefully it reflects in my work, but, you know, that doesn't normally happen : Thanks for reading! And thanks to Sanctuaria and ATrueGryffindor for being cool :)**

**-seastar**


	20. Chapter 19

**A/N: Hey everybody! I'm kind of super excited for no reason! Yeah. So... I'm updating... and I probably should be doing it faster... And I don't know why but it takes me like a week to write only 2,000 words! So I'm going to start writing faster. Maybe. School's ending soon, but that could mean either I'll be writing a lot more or a lot less. I have a lot lined up right now. I'm getting a job, guys -.- Maybe two. Not really pshched about that. Blah. So long summer.**

**Anyway, because I just feel the need to draw attention to everything that I do wrong: I messed up. The girl from 3, Star, was supposed to have been dead. So even though Katniss didn't hear a cannon right before the anthem started (from her dying) I guess Peeta did. Waah :'( I kind of doubt anyone who is reading this story has the book right beside them and is checking for any errors... But still. I mean, hopefully you don't have the book right next to you, because evidently, I mess up a lot. But Sanctuaria helps me out, though. My aweseom beta reader. Thanks to her, I don't sound like as much as an idiot when I try to pretnend that I'm a writer :/ I've been ranting long enough. Read, please. **

* * *

><p>Ruby seems to be waiting for me to say something. "It's not what you think," I confess. It's stupid, with all these cameras around to put such a sizable hole in the fantasy is surround me and Katniss. But I can't help it. It's not like something that simply does not exist will suddenly spring into existence, just because I am willing it to.<p>

"If she even made it through today," I add, trying to sound mournful.

Ruby's ears are practically pricking up. "I'm sure she's okay," she say, obviously preoccupied, swiveling her head from side to side. "Did you hear something?" she asks.

"Like what?"

"Like someone -"

The rest of her words are drowned out - the resounding {boom} of a cannon fills the air. Cato sits bolt upright, the only Career who might actually be semi-conscious, and Ruby scoots away from me.

"What the-?" Cato starts to ask. A hovercraft, made conspicuous by it's glowing red lights, flies overhead, gliding to a halt less than twenty yards from our camp. A body - it's too dark to tell whose, or even discern the color of the long hair - is lifted into the craft, which zooms away seconds later, silent as death.

The others are starting to stir.

"Who was that?" Cato and Ruby both demand at the same time.

"You were supposed to be keeping watch, Red!" Cato shouts.

"I was!" Ruby fires back. "I didn't see anything!"

"Sleeping on the job, Red?" comes Cloves voice from inside her sleeping bag. She's evidently not worried.

"I told you, I didn't see anything!"

"Where are Brown and Blondie?" Marvel asks.

Apparently, no one has an answer. The anthem of Panem starts playing and the seal flies like a flag above our heads. It has just become dark enough for the Gamemakers to project giant images of the dead tributes on the canvas of the night sky. I can call each one by name.

First is - Star?

Cato curses and starts a tirade. I'm not listening, though. Next is Martin, Ruby's friend from 4 who died at the Cornucopia - he has red hair like hers. The list drags on. I didn't realize it when I was telling Ruby, but I really am worried about Katniss. If she's gone, then her face will appear last, but whether that's a blessing or a curse, I can be sure. On the one hand, it gives me hope that the next face won't be hers - with every tribute shown, the odds grow less and less, and according to the cannons earlier, eleven in all are dead; on the other hand, my heart won't be able to relent its pounding rhythm against my ribs until the sky goes dark.

A black-haired boy from 5 named Brett appears third without his female counterpart; both from boys, Horace and Birch, and both girls, Echo and Lark, from 6 and 7 are dead; Otter, Peter, Chrysanthemum and Platinum from 8, 9, and 10. What awful names. In 12, we name our children reasonable things, like Delly.

I'm holding my breath. Is Katniss's face going to appear? No. The Capitol seal is once again visible, and the anthem resumes for a few more measures. When it is silent and dark again, their absence is almost palpable.

Cato is still shouting. "How the hell did you miss her, Red? She couldn't have just traipsed out of here!"

Ruby sighs. "Okay. I saw her get up. I figured she was just going to take a dump or something."

"And what about Comet?"

"What about Comet?" Comet comes striding out of the forest. "I saw Star; what happened?"

"Where were you, you idiot?" Clove demands.

"I went to take a dump," Comet replies. "Saw the hovercraft. I bet they saw me, too, with my pants down."

Clove scoffs. "So you didn't see or hear her, or her attacker?"

"There was no attacker," Comet says. "At least, nobody that I saw."

"She probably took her own life," Marvel says.

"Why would she do that?" Comet asks.

"You were ruthlessly criticizing her." Cato seems to be tiring of the subject quickly, now that suicide seems like a logical explanation. "I think we should get going. We've hardly seen any of these woods, and I'm sure there's plenty more where this came from."

Everyone agrees. Although no one will say it, it's clear everyone is thinking the same thing: Cato is scared. We've all been shaken by Star's sudden death, except maybe Comet. He's probably thinking something along the lines of "Good riddance".

Marvel orders me to make use of myself and take down camp, and this time, Cato doesn't contradict him. I'm on my way to the fifth bag when I hear it groan.

"Glimmer," Clove complains wearily. "Get up, you moron."

"Why? It's still dark."

"We have to leave. Star's dead."

Glimmer uncovers her face. She looks surprised. "Really?"

"I can't believe you slept through the whole thing," Ruby remarks. I hadn't noticed until now, but she has some sort of faint accent. It sounds vaguely sophisticated, like Effie's, with more stress on the vowels. I like it.

"She's a heavy sleeper," Marvel says, nudging her with his foot. "I remember rooming with her at sleep away camp when we were younger. Snored like a vacuum cleaner." Cato and Clove laugh.

"What's a vacuum cleaner?" Ruby asks. I am equally confused, but I don't say anything.

Cato, Clove, and Marvel laugh again. "I forgot, Red, you're not from our neck of the woods, are you?" Cato says, not quite unkindly. "How about you, Comet? Why don't you enlighten the girl?"

"Huh?" Comet has been picking at his nails with a blade, examining them intently as if for damage.

"A vacuum cleaner, Brown," Marvel repeats. "Tell her what it is."

"Oh. Isn't it one of those things that you put on the floor and it sucks up the dirt? And it's shaped like a hovercraft with wheels?"

District 12 would have an over abundance of vacuum cleaners if we could afford them. The only one who could is Haymitch, but he's probably too drunk to think about the cleanliness of the interior of his house. His big, fancy house is Victor's Village. If I won, we would be neighbors.

"Guess they don't have too many of those in Three," Clove says. "You done there, Lover boy?"

I'm still standing over Glimmer. She doesn't budge. "Not quite," I say, glaring down at what's visible of the girl - a bit of forehead and some blonde hair.

"Well, get a move on, then," she says, kicking approximately where Glimmer shin would be under the sleeping bag. Judging by the other girl's howls, she has missed.

As soon as Glimmer's up, it doesn't take long to wrap everything else up. There's an extra sleeping bag now, thanks to Star's mysterious demise. Cato instructs me to deposit the bags in a pile about twenty feet away. I stumble through the thick darkness. I wonder what time it is. Judging by the fact that the nightly anthem had just now played, I'd say that the majority of the residents of Panem are still up. Only around nine or ten 'o clock then. Ugh. If I could go back in time, I would have grabbed a watch before I left. Heck, if I could go back in time, I probably would bound up on the stage and snag Effie's hand before she drew my name out of the reaping ball, or smashed the stupid thing on the ground. Maybe I would prevent my mother from giving birth to me. Or stop District 13 from rebelling.

After the sleeping bags have been put up, Cato tells me to arrange the packs. I can't eat anything because supposedly "It's impossible to tell which food is poisoned", according to Cato. He obviously takes me for stupid - none of the Cornucopia is poisoned. If there were an official Hunger Games rulebook, I'm sure that would be paragraph one, section one: "No Gamemaker is permitted to poison any portion of the food supplies contained within the Cornucopia". I'm sure the audience at home is groaning.

We're to be traveling through the night, according to Cato, but many of the supplies are going to stay put. The reason is obvious - this is Headquarters now, right by the lake, the only source of water I've seen in this arena so far.

The Careers start trampling through the forest, one again heedless of the noise the are creating by breaking the occasional branch off a tree, or upsetting a nest of bats.

I'm heading up the rear along with Ruby, and to my surprise, Cato, who is letting Marvel lead again. It's strange - and the audience back home in 12 is probably hating more for it right now- but within a few minutes, we're all three talking and laughing. Sure, I can't tell who could be faking their enjoyment, neither of the people one either side of me really seems despicable enough to hate. We don't come into the arena ruthless killers, I guess. Only the one who leaves, the sole survivor. When it comes down the the wire, we do what we must. But we won't enjoy ripping each others throats out when the time comes - at least that much can be said.

"Then she fell on her face," Cato says, concluding his embarrassing story about Clove, who now lags behind us, hanging her head.

"Cato," she whines, her hand shooting out to give him a shove in the shoulder.

"What?" he asks. "You were five and I was six. Everyone pees their pants at some point in their lives."

By now, everyone but Cato, who has somehow managed to keep a straight face throughout this entire conversation, and Clove, who is livid, is cracking up.

"We're on national - no, _universal_ television!" she explodes.

Ruby, who is practically doubling over with fits of giggles, trips on a tree root and stumbles into Cato, her hands scrabbling around to find his neck. She grabs on, and it's like a faucet opens up inside Cato. He erupts with laughter. I can see now why he was try so hard to his poker face on - his laugh is a mulish snort that echoes through the forest and only serves to keep us in stitches.

"And I guess you weren't going to mention," Clove says, "the time your mom called you "Huggly Muggly Boo Boo Face" in front of _everyone_ after swim practice? I was fifteen - you were sixteen!"

That shuts Cato up fast. He lunges at Clove, who manages to roll between Marvel and Comet's legs and keep out of harm's way.

As the hours pass, things begin to slow. This is where the tedium begins for the viewers in the Capitol, and the suspense begins for the viewers in the districts. Relationships are built, secrets divulged. Few of the people in town keep their TV sets on as late as it must be right now. Ruby, the only person so far who has been watching out for me beyond telling me to look out for fallen tree branches and the like, bandages my arm, which has been bloodying my sleeve for the past few hours. Honestly, I wouldn't have even noticed if she hadn't said something. When the damage was recent, the bleeding hadn't been at the forefront of my focus, nor were the cuts in my face, which Ruby rubs with some kind of cream, nor was my black eye, which Marvel has taken credit for.

I wonder what my parents think of my teaming up with the Careers. I wonder what the district, what Panem at large thinks. A tribute from 12 allying themselves with anyone but the other tribute from 12 is rare. Very rare. The odds of me teaming up with Careers - who are despised by all but themselves and the betters in the Capitol - at the beginning of these Games was slim. If you can even call what we have an alliance. More like if I try to run, they'll either kill me catch me before I can run ten yards, or hunt me down later on. At least if they kill me, I'll look like something of a martyr. It wasn't my choice, getting taken hostage, but right about now, I'm not really regretting it.

Our first gift arrives in a silver ball with dawn creeping ever-closer. The note attached to it reads "For night-vision". Contained within is something for each of us. A carrot. Glimmer passes them out. There's one for each of the Careers, including me, which is almost flattering, but I have to admit, I hated the carrots that my father sometimes bought from the Hob when I was growing up. I do remember him saying something about the minerals contained in the vegetables aiding eyesight, though.

I scarf down the skimpy orange stick because I'm starving. I haven't eaten since early yesterday morning, and I've covered at fifteen miles so far.

Despite Ruby and the others' evident happiness about the gift - surely the first to be given in the 74th Hunger Games - I can't help but think how absurd the donation really is. As if the Careers don't already have more than enough food. As if they can't just reach for the packs that are right at their fingertips and pull out something that will sustain them, something that every other tribute in this arena needs desperately. Seven carrots could mean the difference between life and death for anyone but this group. The starving in District 12 aren't seeing silver parachutes descending from the sky, full of carrots. They see nothing but the blackness or life, neglect, and death.

I'm quiet after eating my carrot, which now churns in my stomach. Ruby and Cato become engrossed with each other - they tell of their districts, which is mildly interesting; and Marvel and Clove listen to Glimmer complain about her token, a ring which was taken during some inspection that I didn't have to undergo, due to my lack of a district token. This is one of the most lighthearted Games I've ever seen. The Careers are usually much more wound up and kill-ready. This year, they seem more laid back than usual.

That being said, not much more happens in the lull before dawn. Until we see the fire.

* * *

><p><strong>Next chapter: Katniss and Peeta meet (briefly). I'm excited. How 'bout you? I started writing it. But then it was boring, and I was stupid so I started to work on Burning Bliss. You can see how well I can focus on one project. SMH. That reminds me of Reyna's Rise. I haven't updated that in a LONG time. As if any of you care. But you can look at it, if you like :) Okay, this has become a place for me to express my random thoughts. I'll just finish now. <strong>

**Thanks for reading! Read again! PLEASE?**

**-Seastar The Pitiful**


	21. Chapter 20

**A/N: Hey, hey! The long awaited chapter 20 has finally arrived, along with the summer time! No more school :P Not that the weather has been lax here where I live :( It's so hot and this may sound weird but I don't want a tan this year. I get SO dark and it doesn't fade until winter time... Ruins my school pictures. Maybe I should share my annoying ability to completely tan within a day with some paler people. ANYWAY. Yeah. It's really short. The chapter, I mean. But will you love me anyway? I'm actually really proud fo teh reviews I've gotten so far. It's cool just seeing how many people like what I'm doing :) I've already started on the sequel to this one (like I'm gonna be done anytime soon). I shall call it Burning Bliss. Maybe. Whenever this one gets done, the new one is gonna come out really fast hopefuly, considering that in the past month I've already written like 5 chapters of it... When I should be writing this one :\ Oh well.  
>Enough rambling; there will be time for that at the end. READ:<br>**

* * *

><p>I've been telling Ruby about Katniss - how she isn't really in love with me, softly, so the cameras won't be able to pick up my words unless they decide to invest their time in the Capitol to turn up the volume, because at this point I hardly care about what happens next; I just need someone to talk to. The others have been listening intently.<p>

It's so obvious - the flame lights up the night like a flare that even a blind person could see - that I laugh. It's so ridiculous. It would never have even occurred to me to start a fire, and so close to dawn? Whoever placed a bet on this girl as the victor is surely bashing their head against the wall as of this moment.

Marvel is next to spot gently undulating orange speck. He hoots, too, jostling Glimmer's head, which has been resting on his shoulder until now. Glimmer complains an awful lot for a Career. Marvel promised to help her along, on the condition that she promised to shut up.

Cato and Ruby look up at the same time from their entwined hands. I know that, if I were watching from home, I would be slightly sickened by what the two of them feel for each other. Two monsters, wrangled together in a sick gladiator match. But here, seeing it from this vantage point, firsthand, it's heartwarming instead of gut-wrenching. Maybe it's because it's probably the last show of love I'll ever see - if what they have can really be called love. They've known each other for no more than a week. When you're here, though, you have to cling to what you have.

Comet has already taken off running. Cato looks aggrieved. It'd be nice to have the element of surprise on our side, but even now, when were about two-hundred yards from the fire, the starter doesn't seem to have noticed his or her death approaching, closing in on them.

Clove, a nasty grin having spread over her face, breaks into a sprint. She draws a knife, just one of which she always seems to have at the ready, from her jacket. Something inside me, a faint whisper of a feeling, wishes she would trip, fall and impale herself on the blade she holds. She deserves it. From the blood-thirsty expression on her face, you can tell that she's going in for the kill. A strange, almost glassy look of excitement has slid over Glimmer's eyes as well. It's like somewhere embedded in her – almost every Career's – genetic code is the urge, the need to kill.

Ruby and Cato break their hold on each other, but hang back. I know I won't be able to partake in the murder of whoever this person is – I, no doubt, can name him or her out of memory - but I'm not eager to be left behind.

The others are already creating somewhat of a large gap between Ruby, Cato, and I, so I start running, the nightlife flying by, my packs bouncing rhythmically against my spine. The leaves on the trees ruffle as I pass and the old dry twigs they have shed crack with each of my footfalls. My calves burn, my injuries smart, and the rise and fall of my chest becomes unsteady. I ditch one of the backpacks, leaving it for Cato to pick up, and my tread becomes noticeably lighter.

I hear someone scream. "Please!" the girl shrieks. I try to think of who is might be; there currently are six live females in this arena, three of which are with the Careers. That leaves three vulnerable. The little twelve-year-old, the shadow, Rue; the girl from whichever district - 8, I think, Willow; and of course, Katniss.

I am highly doubtful that Katniss lit that fire. She's been smart enough to stay alive in District 12 all these years, after all. She probably knows which meats don't have to be cooked so that she won't risk revealing her whereabouts by means of smoke. Besides, I don't even really think she had fire making down well enough at training to have started a blaze like this one.

Rue has obviously been smart enough to keep herself alive for the entire fist day - which is obviously more than can be said certain other, older tributes. So I don't think she would have endangered herself like this.

That leaves Willow, from District 8. I try to call to mind everything I know about her. She's tall and, well, willowy. She has the longest caramel-colored hair I've ever seen. Stupidity isn't really a defining trait when I think of her, though.

"Please!" the girl screams again. In the glow from the flames, I can see that it is Willow who decided to light the fire, and Comet has a fistful of her pretty hair, yanking it. I hear the scalp give with a sickening rip, and a small clump comes free in Comet's hand. Willow howls.

"Don't kill me! I can help you!" she tries to bargain.

"Hey, maybe you should have thought about that before you started this fire," Clove sneers. "Though, I never could get a good, steady flame like this one going. My fire was second best next to yours - oh well. Now it'll be first!"

I can't believe Clove would even think of something so petty to say at a time like this. Maybe she's been trained in how to make the very last moments of a person's life as miserable as humanly possible.

While Comet stares at the handful of hair he has just grabbed from Willow's head in momentary fascinated surprise, Willow, now completely unrestrained, takes the opportunity to try and escape.

Clove simply extends her foot and trip the girl. Willow lands face first in the dirt.

"Well, don't just stand there, Lover Boy," Clove says, looking over at me with a scowl. "You think the girl's gonna do all the work around here? Hold her down!"

I walk over with no verbal objection, but I think Clove can see the reluctance in my face and gait.

I don't want to hurt her anymore than she already is, so instead of sitting on her ankles like Marvel did to me, I pull out my knife and try something one of the mentors in the Training Center showed me. I don't know how I do it, but I weave the blade in and out of Willow's fingers in such a way that she can't pull free from it without tearing her fingers up. She doesn't squirm any longer, though, and I'm not even completely convinced that she'd even attempt another getaway if she could; she seems resigned to her fate.

Marvel approaches – he's been berating Comet for letting her go for the past two minutes – and examines my work.

He raises an eyebrow in the half-light. "Nice job, Lover Boy," he comments. Then Ruby and Cato emerge from the trees.

"You haven't killed her yet?" they both ask at the same time. It's a bit eerie, because Ruby asks the question with worry in her voice, and Cato in a clipped, business like tone that suggests that the moaning, sobbing person lying on the forest floor is nothing more than a piece of garbage on the ground while we are on clean-up duty.

"Just waiting for you," Clove says, practically shivering with excitement.

"Well, why don't you do the honors?" Cato asks.

"My pleasure," Clove replies, taking a lunge, thrusting forward with her knife in hand. With a final scream, Willow falls silent.

Marvel and Comet let out a whoop and Clove a sort of animalistic growl. Cato watches with a grim, thoughtful expression. I look at Ruby. Her face mirrors mine, eyes wide. We are both trying not to be sick to our stomachs.

We both just stand there like that for a moment as time passes. She is the only person who can empathize with Cato in this arena. Right now, she is the only person who can empathize with me. What did such a wonderful girl do to be condemned to death in a place like this? That is all I can think.

By the time we break away from each other's gazes, Cato has already scooped dirt onto the fire and is stomping it out. The green in the soil smolders and produces puffs of smoke.

"Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts stinking," says Comet.

We all follow him into a small clearing. I'm finding it horribly ironic that Willow died on the roots of a willow tree, a species of which there seems to be an abundance of in this particular sector of the arena. We walk for a little. Ruby has her arms wrapped around her stomach, not expecting Cato's hand. He walks with a flashlight now, close behind her.

I'm examining a willow as we walk. I notice that one of the branches near the top is slightly off, bent at a strange angle. I shine my own flashlight on the roots of the tree.

My mind careens back to Katniss at the climbing station back in the Tribute Center. We didn't spend long on that particular activity - after about five minutes, two things became clear: Katniss was a whiz at climbing; and I was a complete failure. Even the trainer laughed at my attempts to shimmy up the artificial trunk, not to mention Star, who was in stitches. Katniss even cracked a smile or two.

It she's that good a climber, then she's almost definitely decided that up a tree is the best place to be. I decided to keep on walking. But I see her boot and my protective instincts kick in. I have to get them away from here. If the others see her...

Think, Peeta, think.

Cato stops suddenly, causing the rest of the group to halt behind him. Clove rams into his back and the back of my shoe grazes her ankle. It takes Ruby, the only person ahead of Cato, a moment realize that we've come to a standstill. She turns and gives the boy behind her a questioning look, shining her light over his face.

"Shouldn't we have heard the cannon by now?" Cato asks, glancing back in the direction that the body should be in.

"I'd say yes," Ruby supplies. "Nothing to stop them from going in immediately." I can tell by her voice that she can't wait until the dead girl has exited the arena.

"Unless she isn't dead."

"She's dead," Clove says matter-of-factly, "I stuck her myself."

"Then where's the cannon?" Cato counters, his voice rising.

"Someone should go back. Make sure the job's done." Marvel's teeth glitter in the moonlight.

My eyes keep shifting, back and forth, back and forth, between the now fighting Careers and Katniss's boot, which hangs out of the tree, unmoving, but still so unnatural-looking, and just frankly boot-like, that I'm positive that one of the others is going to notice, regardless of what I say or do.

"We're wasting time!" I say finally. Everyone stops and looks at me. Glimmer holds out her fist, just about to hit Comet and the anger on his face is almost cartoonish. "I'll go finish her and let's move on!"

If they're going to finish Katniss, I won't be there to see it.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay: I do realize that Peeta is being really mean, but I guess he's just wrestling with his emotions? Idk. I had to do that to make the storyline work. Yeah, I had a lot more in my head planned for this chapter, but I've been really tired lately - like seriously, I am typing this while sitting bleary-eyed at my computer from a nap and I am still really tired - but I guess I'll just have to tack it on the next chapter because I feel like I've kept you waiting long enough.<br>I also just wanted to say that I've been reviewing stats and stuff, and it's amazing how many people are bothering to read this stuff (and how many are not reviewing, but what can you do? Not that I mind all that much; read it, and if you're happy and coming back for more, I'm happy :) So yeah, THANK YOU EVERYONE :D  
>And last but not least, I would like to thank Sanctuaria for beta-ing and getting back to me in a very timely fashion. I am grateful, but I dropped the ball this time - the chapter was finished and ready to go two days ago, but I just forgot, in my frenzy to get places on time, to publish it. Oops. Sorry :)<br>And I still have a lot to say. I was listening to the Hunger Games, so my attitude toward the story is totally revamped :) I CANNOT wait until the Cave part y'all. That's it. I hope you like it!**

**-seastar**


	22. Chapter 21

**A/N: Hey, y'all. What's up? Nothing? What are you doing? Oh, reading this chapter? Okay, I won't keep you from doing that. And you're reviewing? Why, thank you!  
>Yeah, so I'm finally updating! Sorry, I've been doing it really slowly. I just haven't been able to crank the chapters out as fast as usual. I'm gonna try to update again on Tuesday or something. IDK. How 'bout this: UPDATE TUESDAY! Sounds good? I used to update my other story every Tuesday, so I'll try it on this one. Anyway, REVIEW, pretty, pretty, pretty please? Pretty, pretty, pretty, <em>pretty<em> please? This one is a lot longer than the previous one. And we're getting closer to the real action! So keep on reading!  
><strong>

**Edit: Sorry! I accidentally deleted this one... Oops. Oh well, it's back now. But I actutally did find some grammatical errors so maybe something good came of my deleting this x) Anyway I remembered something else too:**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Hunger Games even though you probably thought I did because I haven't remembered to put an actual disclaimer in for like at least 5 chapters. Sorry Suzanne Collins.  
><strong>

**Now you can read :)**

* * *

><p>I hate him for running.<p>

_Coward. What a coward. _But I know Peeta could never live with himself, knowing that he was the last thing Katniss saw before her death. Peeta Mellark, the boy who threw her the burned bread to keep her alive, even though it cost him a beating, the one who told not only her, but the entire nation of Panem that he was in love with her.

This is what the old Peeta thinks. I hear him in my head, one final time. And he's gone. I don't know where. Away from here, probably because he couldn't bear to see what he was becoming. What _I_ was becoming.

I hear the voices of the Careers behind me. I'm not running nearly fast enough.

"Why don't we just kill him now and get it over with?"

"Let him tag along. What's the harm? And he's handy with that knife."

I can't imagine what led them to believe that I'm handy with a knife. That trick I tried out on Willow's fingers? They were probably only impressed because I managed to do something other than kill a fellow living creature with a blade.

Their voices fade out eventually. It's not long till I reach the spot where Willow is. Well, where she _was_. All that's left now is a body. I think I came just in time to see her last shallow breath. She has disentangled her fingers from the knife and it is now plunged, hilt-deep, into her chest. Right where her heart would be.

I stare at her, mangled and bloodied, in so much pain that she was forced to speed her own death. Old Peeta would have been vomiting his guts up, but this one knows that he can't afford to lose his lunch. He can't even spare any tears. Both water and food will be scarce when I leave the Career's company. I can't stay, and Willow is proof of that. They will have no problem doing to me exactly what they did to her. They're just "letting me tag along", for the time being, anyway. Who knows when they could change their minds?

I start back in a random direction, hoping it's the right one. I feel dethatched from myself and my surroundings. Were a wild animal to suddenly bound out of the forest, I wouldn't be ready to defend myself from it. I'd let it kill me, maul me to death. Gladly.

Katniss's boot hasn't moved since the last time I saw it. The Careers were too busy arguing to notice it.

"Was she dead?" asks Cato immediately upon seeing me.

A gruesome image of Willow flashes behind my eyes. "No. But she is now." The cannon sounds to confirm my words. "Ready to move on?" I ask. There's old Peeta again, looking out for Katniss. Maybe he hasn't gone far after all.

"Yeah," Cato replies, motioning for everyone to follow him out of the clearing. Once we're gone, I don't look back. Not even when I hear the sound of feet hitting the ground and taking off in the opposite direction.

Dawn breaks. Not a word is exchanged between anyone but Ruby and Cato, who seem enraptured with each other – as much as they can be, anyway, what with the threat of death and danger lurking around every corner. This is as much a funeral as Star is going to get. During her interviews, she mentioned that she had no family back home. Having grown up in District 3, I wonder how hard it was for her. In 12, if a child's parents are gone, killed in a mining accident, or dead by starvation, it won't be long until he or she meets the same fate. I try to help the orphans – tried – but my family could never do much more than any others in town. The Peacekeepers occasionally took the kids somewhere before they died – other times, the bodies would be stinking up the square for months. Maybe Star grew up in an orphanage, or some other facility that we don't have in my district due to our lack of fund and abundance of parentless children.

I start trying to keep time on my fingers to fill the silence. Since dawn, which really could be anywhere from five to seven in the morning, it's been four hours. Four hours of walking. Four hours of total silence, except for the growling of stomachs and the crunch of leaves beneath our boots and Cato and Ruby's indistinct whispers. The occasional skitters past, I see a doe, and spot an owl, hunkering down in its nest until nightfall and darkness roll around again.

I yawn once, and so does Clove, seeing my mouth gape open. Soon, the air is filling with sighs and breaths, one contagious yawn generating a thousand, and my feet start feeling more and more leaden with every step I take. We hardly got any sleep last night; I don't even remember if I dosed off or not.

"Don't you think we should stop and have a rest?" Glimmer asks, chugging from a bottle of water. "I'm tired."

"We all are," Clove says grumpily. "Cato?"

Cato grunts in reply.

"We need a rest."

"No."

"_Cato._"

"I said no, Clove."

Clove opens her mouth to shout out some reply and Comet clamps his hand over her mouth, causing her to produce a muffled shriek of indignation. I hold up a hand.

"Maybe it would be best if we all took five, Cato," I say, not meeting his eyes.

"Even Lover Boy's tired, see?" Glimmer says.

"We're supposed to be tracking that girl," Cato tries to explain, the weariness in his voice evident. "For whatever reason, she got an eleven in training, and –"

Everyone starts clamoring about Katniss and her eleven, which has probably been hacking them off since the beginning, and how stupid she looked at her interview, and how nobody in their right mind – meaning me – would ever fall in love with her.

"Shut up!" Cato roars. "I don't know how she got an eleven in training, and I don't care. We don't have time to care, we need to track her down and get rid of her. Which means tracking her."

_Good luck_, I think. Katniss is probably tracking _us_, the Career pack as we speak. Tracking us and keeping well away.

Glimmer stretches out on the ground. "Let her come." She yawns.

Cato looks from his knife, to Glimmer, back to his knife, and at Ruby, who is now touching his shoulder.

"We need some sleep Cato." Her eyes plead with his, and it's obvious a battle is raging inside Cato's head. It would obviously give them a leg up to get rid of Katniss, especially this early in the game. But if they do find her, will it be worth it if she escapes simply because all of Cato's troops are groggy and sleep-deprived.

The latter option seems to win out in his head, because he looks away from Ruby and, shrugging her shoulder off, walks over to Glimmer and snatches her up. She scream obscenities at him and beats on his back until he sets her back on her feet, unsmiling. I can't hide a small smile and Marvel is grinning as well. Comet and Clove burst out laughing.

"We'll keep on until sunset," Cato informs us. He does make a bargain, though. We stop and eat every other hour, the more desirable of our food choices. The dried beef, raisins, crackers etcetera, will be saved for whoever makes it.

I'm teased for eating so ravenously, but really, this would be a feast for my family back home. True, the capitol treated us to the lavish, luxurious life for the duration of out stay there, but this is a meal for typical capitol residence. The hamburgers, which miraculously haven't spoiled thanks to some contraption that has been keeping them cool until now, the potato chips, which we lunched on at the training center, something that I've never heard of or even seen that Ruby tells me is called _pizza_, topped with tomato sauce, melted cheese, vegetables, and meat, are all delicious and totally unreachable in District 12.

"So, Twelve," Clove says, digging her elbow into my side. She likes alternating between the name "Twelve" and "Lover Boy" because it's now unclear whether or not I'm really in love with Katniss. "How do you like the fried chicken? It's a delicacy at home in Two."

"It's good," I tell her, because it is; I just can't tell what she means by asking me.

Cato laughs.

"What?" I ask.

"She's pulling your leg," he says. "This is what the shelters feed the homeless in Two."

"We couldn't ever afford to get more than one chicken a week back home," Ruby says quietly. We all look at her. "We weren't rich," she confesses, "not with eight mouths to feed."

"I guess it doesn't matter now." Glimmer heaves a sad sigh. Again, I think that these people, the Careers, might actually be decent people – or _were_ decent people until faced with the arena, which is in stark contrast with the blood-thirsty animals I saw, gathering around Willow's body, hooting and hollering.

I wonder if you could walk around your whole life, thinking you were a perfectly upstanding person, when really, if it came down to the wire, you would be willing to kill in a heartbeat, without even a moment's hesitation. But maybe everyone is like that, if it's for the right person. I'd kill for my family; I'd kill for Katniss, if it came down to, if not because I love her, because I've managed to keep her alive until now.

But would I kill for myself?

I think that's the real question.

Each and every one of the people I am sitting with, I am almost certain, would kill for themselves. For different reasons, possibly, but what difference does it make? Maybe that is what categorizes them as Careers. Maybe that is why I don't belong with them and I have to get away.

Comet picks up the conversation on a much-needed immature note by telling a joke about a banana peel and an onion. It startles us out of our respective reminiscent silences and draws a small giggle out of Ruby.

Before long, we have to start walking again, but we're all in much better spirits. Glimmer and Marvel start singing a song that they learned as children, in some dead language called French. The words are nice, elegant, but are interrupted by strange guttural noises that remind me of my mother hawking up phlegm and spitting out the kitchen window.

I wonder what the audience in at home thinks of this year's merry group of Careers. I don't ever remember the player having this much fun during the Games, but maybe that's simply because I'm biased and have been taught to hate the Careers and basically everything that they do from the get go.

My parents can't be regarding me in the highest light right now – or anyone in District 12 – but it's what I had to do to survive. _Survive and save Katniss_, I remind myself, but I can't bring myself to figure out where she and I stand at this point.

So far, we haven't come across anything incriminating in terms of Katniss's whereabouts. When Marvel suggests turning around, I point out a trampled-over bush and we continue plowing forward. We've been staying in relatively close proximity to the Cornucopia, and soon we're back where I started before the Careers abducted me.

"We could really use a compass," Clove observes. "Maybe we should head back to that lake for the night, Cato?"

The sinking sun in the distance is Cato's focus. "Yeah," he agrees. "We should."'

It's only a ten minute trek to the lake from here and we unroll our sleeping bags for a second time under the stars and the canopy of the trees.

I think I'm the one who can enjoy the stars, though; everyone else is too busy slapping at the bugs. It's too hot to be in buried in a sleeping bag, but the alternative is being devoured by mosquitoes and whatever other bugs live by the water.

"How do we even know they're mosquitoes?" Glimmer worries. "They could be some kind of flying, flesh-eating tick."

"They're mosquitoes, Glimmer," assures Marvel, who is usually the only one who has any patience for Glimmer never-ending stream of concerns. He _has_ grown up with them, and her, after all.

"Why are there even mosquitoes out here? There usually aren't even humans to suck blood from."

"They drink animal blood."

"Poor animals. And they don't even have opposable thumbs to scratch with."

"They don't need opposable thumbs."

"Mosquitoes have such a pointless existence, don't you think? All they do is buzz around, drink blood, reproduce, and die."

I am lulled to sleep by Glimmer's voice, pointing out the absurdities in nature.

When I wake, the sun tells me that it's close noon. It's amazing how much sleep one full day of walking warrants. And it looks like I am the first one to have woken. Funny how the idea of escape didn't even occur to me until now. _Idiot_, I scold myself for not thinking of it sooner. But I can't bring myself to leave. Not yet. It would almost feel like stealing from these people, and stealing from a group of well-rested hunters is such a great idea. So I stay.

Comet wakes up next, getting up and going down to the bank, out of sight. When Cato opens his eyes, he curses himself for not being up sooner. It's true, we've already lost the better part of the day, but what difference does it really make? In terms of finding Katniss, it could have brought her closer or farther from us.

The only death yesterday, reports Marvel, who, thanks to Glimmer, was the only one awake to see the anthem and the faces in the sky, was Willow, and it's no mystery who killed her. She's lying right next to me, playing with the fraying corner of my sleeping bag.

"Where's Comet?" Cato demands when he notices his absence.

Nobody says anything.

Cato makes an exasperated noise. "Comet!" he calls.

Comet splashes up the bank. "Huh?"'

"Taking a dump again?" Clove laughs.

Comet rolls his eyes. "No."

"We're taking down camp," Cato tells him, standing.

"How 'bout we make Lover Boy do it again?" Comet asks, his eye shining. The cuffs of his pants are wet as well as his shoes, which make squelching sounds as he trots up to his bedroll.

"How about not." Ruby starts rolling her bag up by herself, to my great appreciation.

"We don't have that much time," Cato say. "Now get moving, idiot."

The second day passes much like the first. We walk until the moon rises, though. When it does, we're just outside a clearing with a small stream.

"Hey, look," Glimmer says. "Footprints."

She's right. Small boot prints, several sizes smaller than my own, pockmark the muddy ground. "Do you think she's…?"

"Shh," Cato orders. "We'll act first thing in the morning. Someone needs to keep watch, though. I don't think Lover Boy's gonna cry wolf on his girlfriend, so Marvel, you're up."

"Only if Glimmer goes after me."

"Fine."

"Hey!" Glimmer protests.

"'Hey'" nothing," Cato says. "Marvel, two hours." He tosses his a watch. So he's had one all along?

I can't get to sleep for several hours after everyone but Marvel retires. He actually switches off with Glimmer before my eyes close. It seems to be getting hotter and hotter, even after I crawl out of my sleeping bag. When I wake, it's to the sound of crackling flames.

* * *

><p><strong>The beginning was really confusing. I think we're going to be seeing more of then-PeetaOld Peeta and now-Peeta. Yay? Nay? What say you? **

**Anyway, I will try to update very soon. And also, I got a new idea for Reyna's Rise! Yay! But you probably don't care about that... If you're in to Percy Jackson, check it out! PLEASE? **

**Anyway (again) REVIEW! Seriously, please? Pppllleeeaaassseee? See what I did there? I did 3 of every letter. But please review if you like it! Review if you don't like it! Review if you love it! **

**And many thanks to my beta Sanctuaria for beta-ing and stuff :)**

**-The great (or not so) and reviewless seastar**


	23. Chapter 22

**A/N: Hi :) Guess what day it is? Monday (or it was at the time that I wrote this)! But who cares? I got 100 reviews! HOORAY! I mean, compared to other fanfiction, that's not that good, especially considering that this is chapter 22, but I'm not complaining! It can only ge better from here on out! So I want to reach 200 reviews, obviously, so I need like every single person who reads to review! PLEASE? That would be like my dream come true! You guys can't see the stats, but I am very pleased with amount of people reading this story! Does not reviewing mean that you don't like it? I hope not :O  
>Other news, I am definitely doing Catching Fire from Peeta's POV, so if you think that my version is not-sucky, then yeah, you might have something to look forward to, because I've already written like 5 or 6 chapters of that and I plan on publishing them ^^<br>Okay, guys, I really want reviews, so don't let me down! **

* * *

><p>I see the fire before I smell the smoke, but once the stench hits me, it's like someone has poured burning coals down my throat.<p>

The stench is sour, acrid, not at all like the sweet hickory smoke that comes off the logs that we burn at my house or use to heat the bakery ovens. This fire was started with the help of flamethrowers and gasoline, I am thoroughly convinced.

I gain my senses enough to wake the others. The first words to exit my mouth are, "What the hell?", then, "Ruby!" If everyone else dies, I'd rather her live. She won't kill me. But maybe that would better, because then I'd have to kill her.

Ruby's awake within the minute, shaking Cato. He seems on top of it, as if he were expecting something so monumentally catastrophic, as if he were dreaming about it or something. Between scrambling to get his things together and waking everyone who is still sleeping, he even has enough time to yell at Glimmer and Marvel.

"You idiots were supposed to keep watch!"

He also proceeds to call them a plethora of names which will most likely edited out for the sakes of the younger viewers.

I can't help but smiling as they spring apart - they were slumped back to back against each other, one probably planning to knock heads with the other to wake them up. I wonder how frequently Glimmer hits her head. Maybe he parents dropped her in the cradle.

I'm the first to get on my feet, setting the direction for everyone. The flames seem to be spreading from a source somewhere to the east of us, so, naturally, I head to the west, against the wind. I know it's the west because we're heading away from the rising sun, which is just peeking out from under the horizon.

We run, leaving our camp and whatever would slow us down too much. That means three of the sleeping bags, and about a quarter of last night's leftovers that no one bothered with. Cato says they've got more food stockpiled. I wonder when they did that. That must have been the first order of business after the gong sounded and the scuffle at the Cornucopia was through.

My legs start to burn, as well as my lungs. There's a stitch in my side and I gradually start to slow down and drift toward the rear of the pack. Glimmer doesn't look like she is going to make it, and I notice she is limping along in last place, favoring her left foot.

"What's wrong?" I ask her.

"Nothing," she lies, either because she doesn't want to admit weakness, or she doesn't want my help.

But the next step she takes apparently surpasses her threshold for silent suffering.

"My ankle," she says in a whiny tone that would probably irritate me if I wasn't actually concerned about her. I don't even know why I am, or should be, but there it is. Obviously I wouldn't go as far as giving my life for her, and my regard for her wits really isn't terribly high, but I don't want her get to be left behind and/or devoured by flames.

"I twisted it back there somewhere." Glimmer looks pained, anxiously glancing back at the fire, which is eating a path toward us, licking through the overgrowth and underbrush like a tongue licking an ice cream cone.

"How bad is it?" I ask, thinking I could make her a crutch from a fallen twig or stick. It would take a minute or two, meaning we would fall behind the group even more than we already have. Would it even be worth it, in that case?

"I can't walk on it for much longer," Glimmer admits. I don't know what this means, exactly. To Glimmer, the pain of a headache might be equivalent to that of a concussion for someone else. But either way, if I don't say or do something, she'll be lost to the wildfire. Gone. What a pitiful way to die.

"Okay," I say to Glimmer. I scan the ground for sticks to fashion into a crutch, but there isn't much more than pine straw down there, that I can see at least. The smoke is getting thicker, burning my eyes and lungs, forcing tears into my eyes and causing me to cough.

Now the only option is speaking. The others have to slow down either so Glimmer can keep pace, or just until something can be done about her ankle. Half of me doesn't want to say anything, wants to see how things would play out of I weren't here at all. The other half knows that I have to, not just because for Glimmer's sake, but for conscience's, too.

Old Peeta and New Peeta don't have enough time to battle it out, I know. There blaze certainly isn't interested in waiting.

"Glimmer's ankle," I cough out to whoever is listening. No one hears, so I sprint forward a few yards until I'm right by Clove's ear. "Glimmer's hurt," I repeat.

Clove whirls around, her hair catching my cheek. I wonder fleetingly if her pack came equipped with a hairbrush, because her hair, opposed to my rat's nest, doesn't even have a visible tangle.

"What?" she asks, looking past me.

"Glimmer -" I cough. "Her ankle."

"Cato!" Clove barks. "Slow it down, Glimmer's way behind!" It's true; Glimmer can be seen through a hazy veil of smoke, whereas only a wisp or two is between me and Clove.

Marvel and Comet take notice of Glimmer at the same time Clove does. Marvel starts rummaging in his pack for something, completely halted as the others start to pass him by.

"There's a splint in here somewhere," he shouts to Glimmer. "You can make it, right?"

Glimmer hops for a yard or two before collapsing at Marvel's feet. Her scoops her up immediately, saying, "Stand, will you? I know you're not that weak", while still searching his pack.

Watching these events from over my shoulder doesn't fare me too well; a tree meets my face before I realize I've ventured a bit off course. I don't think anyone else noticed - they all have their heads swiveled in the direction of Glimmer and Marvel, too. I know who did see, though. All of Panem. How ironic that the few who are actually here with me didn't even notice. I'll bet Gale is having a good laugh over idiot Peeta walking into a tree.

Peeta, the Tree-Hugging Traitor. That's me, and that's who I'll be known as I don't break away from the Careers soon.

I finally catch back up to Ruby and Cato, keeping a sharp eye out for anything that could be a potential danger to my face.

Ruby keeps glancing from me to Glimmer, her face creased and worried.

"They're okay, aren't they?" she asks.

"They're fine," Cato and I say at the same time, me to assure her that they really are fine, Cato to make her shut up more than anything else. She's asked this at least six times that I've heard.

"Are you okay?" Ruby raises her eyebrows at me, which are as red as her hair.

_She saw_, I think, the moment she says, "I saw your run-in with that tree." She smiles. "You have a little lump. Are you okay?"

Cato is unable to keep quiet. "He ran into a tree?" I can almost see the smirk on his face, although all I can see is the back of his head. His hair looks greyish through all this smoke. It's getting thicker, like we're getting closer to the source. Only we're headed _away_ from it.

I hear something whizzing through the tree, crackling like a live wire. "Hit the ground!" Cato shouts, not a trace of humor left in his voice.

I drop to my knees immediately, covering my head with my hands, trying my best to keep moving. There's a near-deafening _BOOM_ and bright burst of flame to the left of us, luckily far ahead. Debris, decimated trees and specks of dirt shower down on us like burning rain.

I stand, charging ahead, but not nearly as fast as Ruby and Cato. They're on their feet within seconds and a column of smoke in the distance envelops them in darkness. They come running back out almost as quickly as they entered, wheezing and spitting.

"Not that way!" Ruby manages, turning to the west of us. A barrage of fireballs shoots from somewhere over the treetops. I duck behind a rock, my arms a helmet. The air is alive with sparks and ashes.

The rock heats up like an iron on my back and I jerk away from it. My arms are burning, and the smell of singed hair pervades my nostrils. There are tiny flames dancing on my triceps, each hair like a tiny candle wick. I beat at them before my skin gets burned. It's a good thing I wasn't wearing my jacket; my clothes have remained relatively unscathed up until this point.

I start running again, my heart drumming out a frantic rhythm. Adrenaline courses though my veins. By the looks of it, the fireballs landed in a straight line. The first of the three served as a match, igniting the trees and brightening the twilight to a brilliant noon; the second could have brought death to whomever had been standing in the open of the clearing; and the third was aimed right at the rock that I had chosen as shelter.

I can feel the skin on my arms swelling, but I can't afford a glance down to assess the damage. I can just barely see the others; we're making our way out of the woods, back to the flat plain that contains the Cornucopia. I'm not sure if it's obvious to the others, but it's obvious to me: the Gamemakers wanted us here. Right here. The fireballs and flames were just being used to create a path for us to take. I'll bet Thresh or Rue or Katniss is close by. I can't think of who else would be a threat, if Rue even counts.

I feel like I can't breathe - there's not enough oxygen in the atmosphere, there can't be if it's this hard to get enough air into my lungs. The Gamemakers could just asphyxiate us all if the urge came over them. Maybe that's the point. The fire didn't do much damage to us, but everyone is vomiting, or at the very least dry-heaving by the time we stop. We're out of range of the attack. Finally. The fire is still ravaging the forest, felling trees and filling the sky with noxious fumes.

No one says much, just searches the packs for bottles of water or anything to soothe a parched throat. I have to settle for some grapes until Glimmer lets me have a drink from her bottle.

"Thanks, Loverboy. For saving me," she says, though I hardly did anything. I smile at her.

Cato takes inventory, noting missing things in a raspy voice.

"Medical supplies," he says hoarsely. "Medical supplies... Glimmer, where's your pack?"

"I don't know. I was trying to stay alive." She shrugs.

"You had all our medical supplies!" Cato thunders as loud as he can.

"Not all of it." Glimmer points to her splint. "There's obviously more."

Comet retches beside Cato, gagging on his bile. Cato shoves him away. "Do that somewhere else, will you? And you -" he draws his knife and points it at Glimmer, approaching her. "You better watch your step, Glimmer. Because the next wrong one you make is going to cost you!" He drives the knife into the ground next to her hand, catching one of the fingers. Blood gushes and pools between her thumb and forefinger.

Glimmer wails. "Cato!" Ruby shouts harshly.

Cato is breathing hard, visibly shaking and angry as anything. Marvel is at his shoulder now. "Calm down, Cato," he says, placing a hand on him.

Cato shakes the hand off, ignoring Marvel. "We need to get back to our original plan," he says. "If any of you remember, we were tracking Eleven Girl. So as soon as you quit throwing up, I'd like to get back to doing that."

Cato's anger passes, Glimmer's finger is bound and bandaged, we refill our packs at the Cornucopia, which is overflowing with extra food - and medical supplies - and we're on our merry way again.

Well, maybe not so merry. Even as the Career pack, which I can't really count myself as part of, I'm pretty sure that we're supposed to be frightening at best. Big, at least. We don't look very menacing, though, as we trudge or, in Glimmer's case, limp through the forest, searching for unscorched patches of grass. This place, and possibly the grasslands, have been eliminated as food sources.

It's almost evening when we come across another stream, like the one we were resting by before the fire. Maybe we've come full circle; it's impossible to tell.

I hear an animal flit through the underbrush. That's a good sign. I haven't seen any burn marks on the ground for a while, but there wasn't a sound to be heard, aside from the splashing of the stream. I thought the Gamemakers might have driven all the animals to extinction.

"Someone's here," Comet says. We break into a run, though I'm not eager to swoop in for the kill. Not after I came so close to being killed just hours ago. I hadn't really thought much of it until now, but it keeps nagging in the back of my mind. I was lucky to make it out with only blisters on my arm, which is bandaged up now.

"There she is," Clove says, hurrying to the base of one of the trees made tall by spreading its roots toward the stream.

Cato is right on her heels. He cranes his neck upward to see the inhabitant of the towering tree while the rest of us gather around him.

Katniss's alert grey eyes stare down at us, inspecting the situation, and serving to startle me. I don't know who I was expecting - Rue, maybe, who demonstrated her climbing skills at the Training Center. Somehow, Katniss catches me off guard. Her eyes are so familiar - like home, like the Seam.

And even from here, I can tell that her eyes aren't precisely grey - they have a little bit of blue, inherited from her mother. One of my brothers, Cole, has eyes that color. I never really thought much about it, but now that I'm thinking about it, it seems strange because both of my parents have dark blue eyes.

I'm frozen now, I can't think of anything but my brother, up there in that tree instead of Katniss, being shot down by an arrow or putting too much weight on a weak limb and crashing down, down, down, through the boughs and splatting on the ground at my feet, while I watch helplessly.

Grins have stolen over the majority of the Careers faces. Cato looks desperate to get rid of his target, who is now smiling as well.

"How's everything with you?" Katniss's voice reminds me that she is not my brother. But she may as well be, because I will protect her, regardless of who she is.

Cato is clearly not interested in conversing, but he obliges anyway. "Well enough," he says, sounding like the cigar-smoker who runs the tailor shop in town. "Yourself?"

Katniss grins. "It's a bit warm for my taste," she says, referring the fire. One of her legs hangs limply from a branch, red and angry-looking. "The air's better up here. Why don't you come on up?"

He knows he's being baited, but he is probably too impatient to care. "I think I will," Cato says, mounting the tree trunk.

"Here, take this, Cato." Glimmer holds out her bow. She's probably trying to make up for losing the medical supplies. I take out my own knife, ready to offer it to Cato, but for what? I can't aid him in his killing Katniss escapade. So I start cleaning it, or pretending to, hoping to conceal my dislike of the situation, to draw attention away from myself.

"No," Cato tells Glimmer shortly. In other words, he is still hacked off. "I'll do better with my sword."

He starts climbing the tree, and I have to admit, he's not half bad. It's just that Katniss is better. She works her way up the branches, nimble as a monkey.

About ten yards is separating them when the game of cat and mouse ends. Cato's limb makes a sickening _crack_ and gives. He sprawls out on the ground, his arms seeming to have taken most of the impacts. He stands and starts swearing, but he looks okay. Ruby rushes over to quiet him and see if he's alright. He'll have a few bruises, but ultimately, that's pretty good for having fallen twenty feet.

Glimmer, eager to prove her worth, starts climbing, quicker than Cato was. Katniss is still going up.

I hear leaves rustle and branch that Glimmer is astride starts breaking. She scootches over to another and loads her bow. I wonder how she must looks to Katniss, who is obviously an expert with the bow and arrow.

Glimmer shoots and, mercifully, misses. Not that I expected her to make it. If their places were reversed, Katniss would have already shot Glimmer clean through the eye.

Glimmer, admitting defeat, makes her way back down the tree before she injures herself. I'll bet her ankle isn't even a hundred percent.

Clove has a multitude of ideas for getting Katniss down, including tempting her with food, with blankets, cutting the tree down, and trying again with the arrows.

The arrow idea comes last, though I've already thought of it. If I were in their side, I would have voiced it long ago, and it wouldn't be too dark to try, which it now is.

I decide to speak again, since it saved Glimmer last time; this time it might save Katniss.

"Oh, let her stay up there. It's not like she's going anywhere. We'll deal with her in the morning."

Cato frowns at me, more than likely tired of people attempting to steal command from him. Nonetheless, it's as much of plan as has been offered so far, so we break the huddle and set up camp.

* * *

><p><strong>Spoiler alert: Glimmer and Ruby are gonna die! I actually like them, now. I've become attached to my little Careers :'(<br>Anyway, next up is the tracker jackers, and a bunch of interesting stuff that I made up! Yay! Then the Cave Scene (finally) *Rubs hands together diabolically* I can't wait! The bad news is: You guys will have to. I am going on vaction (NYC! Woot woot), so I won't be able to update much, if at all for the rest of the summer :( But I'll be working on some stuff! **

**I want to start doing shout outs, so if you want a shout out, review! I will give a shout out to everyone who does! So REVIEW! Please, I don't know how to compel you, but please, do it!**

**And while I'm at it, shout out and thanks to MistressMockinjay for reading, reveiwing, and being awesome! And also AVG18, for reviewing every chapter for the past I don't know how many chapters :) Thanks a billion!**

**And I don't know if y'all noticed, but I put up my stick-figure Peeta drawing in horrible quality! Yay!**

**And Happy Independence Day/Fourth of July to all those who live in the states! Happy Monday to all those who don't! **

**And thanks to Sanctuaria for beta-ing! **

**And I need to stop saying 'and'.**

**- Hugs! Seastar**


	24. Chapter 23

**A/N: Hiya :) Greetings from Georgia - not that I'm going to be here much longer (hallejulah). I know some people would just love to live in Atlanta, like I do, but frankly, I can't take the heat. Just kidding. That's pretty much the only think I really like about it here. It doesn't get that cold. Anyway, I will be in NY soon, which means I can't update for like a month because even after I get back I am leaving again, then school is starting. Heaven forbid my ever updating in between any of that.  
>This chapter is nothing but a really, really cruddy tide-over chapter. I wasn't planning on publishing it until it was polished. Actually, I was, I just wish I actually had time to polish it :( I want to finish this story up by the end of the summer (yeah right) so that I can get the Catching Fire thing underway! YAY.<br>While I'm gone, I would be the happiest person ever in the world if you guys could, I don't, _set a world's record of reviews one fanfiction chapter._Just kidding. But I would be eternally grateful if everyone who read did review, just for me. Plleeaase? Okay? Okay. Now you can my really bad redition of what I like to call _Tracker Jacker Scene a la Peeta._ **

* * *

><p>In the middle of the night, I wake. Glimmer is slumped up against the tree, right where I left her. I took first watch, so that Ruby wouldn't have to after Clove volunteered her, and Glimmer was forced onto second.<p>

"She's lazy, that one," Clove remarked, raising an eyebrow at the fire-headed girl sitting by Cato. "Cato's letting her off easy. Let her have some, Cato. First watch tonight."

Cato rolled his eyes. "I think you'd better take that watch Clove. Thanks for volunteering."

But Comet and Marvel agreed that Ruby wasn't pulling her weight. She'd already admitted that she never intended to be a Career, but took the option while she could. If she was going to stick around, she needed to prove herself.

"I'll take the watch," I said.

"Look out, Ruby, you've got another admirer," Glimmer said, grinning from inside her sleeping bag. She'd wasted no time setting it out. But then again, she never does. "Loverboy's got his sights set on you."

Before I can please innocence, Cato gave both me and Glimmer a threatening glare. "That's second watch, Glimmer. Loverboy, you're up." If looks could kill.

So I took first watch, which was four hours long. The moon was high, the sky and forest dark and foreboding. Even in the close presence of five other people, I felt incredibly alone. The sleeping Careers were nothing but breathing bodies, offering me no comfort or protection.

When my time was mercifully up, I woke Glimmer, who walked groggily up to the tree and sat with her arms crossed for a moment before letting her head loll back against the trunk. Somehow, I felt safer in a sleeping bag, which was designed in a straitjacket-like fashion, with an unconscious girl guarding our camp than I did when I was in the unguarded girl's position. I guess it's a psychological thing.

So, here I am now, awake in the middle of the night, in the wilderness, wondering why I am not at home in by bedroom, and whether or not my brother has finally kicked his habitual snoring. My eyes really see Glimmer at that moment, and my memories snap back into place.

I don't know why I've woken up until I feel the water droplets caught in my lashes. I blink, only causing them to roll into my eyes and down my cheeks like unsalty tears. _Thanks eyelashes_, I think briefly before looking up to find the source of the water.

My first thought, of course, is rain, coming to dampen the remaining embers from the fire. But there's not a cloud in the sky; the moon and stars are plainly visible.

Then another drop hits me square in the eye. I curse silently. What in the name of – I see Katniss's water bottle, obviously leaking, with drops the shine like pearls in the moonlight collected on the lip. Every so often, on detaches itself and either hits a branch and diffuses, or manages to slip the boughs and land somewhere on my body, which is positioned right below.

I scoot my bag closer to Clove, who is nearest me, to escape the shower. I notice a gleam in her palm. A spear. Of course she'd sleep armed. I am I the only one with a mistaken sense of trust here? I take it from her, and place it next to my thigh in such a way that it won't stab me in my sleep. She doesn't have seemed to notice, so I slide back down in my bag and close my eyes again.

The night is silent as the dead in the absence of the usual Careerly banter. But there is a faint buzzing, somewhere. Could it be in my ears? Just in my head? I am too tired to think about it, honestly. I go back to sleep and wake to complete mayhem.

"_AAAHHHH!_" A scream rips through the air. I jump up, my hand flying instantly to Clove's spear, my head and heart pounding, my legs tangled in the sleeping bag. I look around, feeling dizzy, as I always do when I get out of bed in the morning. I feel dizzy and my vision gets cloudy…

_No_, I think as the scream repeats itself. "_AAAHHHH!_" In the midst of an obvious catastrophe, I stand there, blind to the world, struggling to keep my footing. _Damn it_, I think, then "_DAMN IT_," as a sharp stinging pain seizes my left ear. Wait, I said that out loud. My vision clears and I swat at my ear. It comes away covered in puss. Puss, and a purple-and-gold wasp-bee hybrid insect. At least, I think it's an insect – they do have six legs, don't they? Because this bug definitely has six legs. I know without counting.

As I rid my hand of the bug and milky push by giving it a rough shake, I think, _Yuck_, and _Ouch_, and _tracker jackers_, all at the same time. And one other word: _Run_.

"To the lake!" someone cries. "To the lake!"

I take off, but Cato pushes me back in the direction of the camp. I listen to his order dizzily.

"Get Eleven Girl! Even if it kills you!"

I should have been expecting this. Cato cares not one bit about me. He thinks I'm going to be the one to kill Katniss? Is he kidding? I'm too woozy to be wielding any kind of weapon right now, but I keep a tight hold on the spear. The poison is setting in already and I start seeing stars. Cato gives me a final shove before leaving, and I sprawl out on the ground.

_Get up_, I tell myself, and I do. I don't see Ruby's red hair, or Glimmer's blonde anywhere. I'm going back for them.

"Glimmer! Ruby!" I call. I hear screams, loud ones, desperate ones and crash through the underbrush. That's when I see Glimmer's body – and Katniss next to it.

I can't believe my eyes as they see Katniss turning Glimmer's slender body over with some effort and start to pry the bow out of her stiff fingers. Seeing Glimmer writhing on the ground is equally as jarring. Her eyes are still darting around, green and helpless. She has a sting on her lips, her cheek, and one on either side of her nose. Her eyes lock on mine, I tear my gaze away, unable to bear hers, unable to help her.

I try to get Katniss off her. "What are you still doing here?" I shout of the din of the buzzing tracker jackers. If Cato hears anything, hopefully he'll think that I'm yelling at Glimmer. "Are you mad? Get up! _Get up!_" I start jabbing at her with the butt of my spear.

Cato chooses now to make his reappearance. How convenient. "Run!" I shout at the top of my lungs to Katniss. "Run!"

She takes off. Cato kneels next to Glimmer. Tears leak out of her eyes. Her mouth has swelled shut. She mumbles, or sobs, I can't tell.

Cato grabs my collar. An acute pain shoots down my spine. Another sting. My back arches, and Cato yanks me closer to him, thinking I'm trying to escape.

"What the hell was that?" He roars. Saliva spews from his mouth and lands in my eye. I have a field of vision limited to my right side now. I start feeling even dizzier and Cato's face spins before me. My eyes roll back into my head and he shakes my shoulders. "You were supposed to kill her! All you had to was turn the spear around!"

He's right, of course, but I can't have him arguing with me over a deteriorating Glimmer. "Can't you see someone is dying right under your feet?" I scream at him.

Cato glances down and cries out in pain. He lifts his arm and flicks off a tracker jacker. Like bees, the die once they sting you. The lifeless shell flies through the air and hits the tree trunk. I see the whole thing with surprising clarity through my one good eye. While Cato turns his attention to Glimmer, I take the opportunity to wipe my hand across my face.

Looking at Glimmer, I can now see that she's done for. Even if we had time to find whatever would cure her stings, which it's unlikely is in the packs, she has too many. I can count nine just on her face. She was too close to the tree when the tracker jackers were upset.

_That could have been me_, I think. Had I let Glimmer sleep through her watch, it _would_ have been me.

_Man up_, New Peeta tells me. I look to my left. He's right there, grinning at me, blonde-haired, blue-eyed and sunburned.

I look to my right. Old Peeta shakes his head at me. He looks garish, riddles with stings and huge, swollen tracker jacker lumps. I jump.

Glimmer gives a squeak as a wasp lands on her and buries it's stinger into her neck. She tries to say something. "Gmm. _Gmm_."

_She's telling you to leave. Leave her_, New Peeta says. I stare at him. His mouth hasn't moved, and yet he's saying these vicious things. "How are you doing that?" I scream at him. I see Cato whip around and look at me.

"What?" he asks.

"She's tell us to go!" I say, standing instead of explaining myself. A wasp lands on my arm and stings me before I can swat it away.

I run faster than I ever have, ever. Faster than I did when my mother caught me behind the slag heap with a girl for the first. Faster than I did when my mother caught me behind the slag heap with a girl for the tenth time. Faster than I did when my friend convinced me that it was a good idea to go up to the fence in that meadow and test the authenticity of the electric barrier and old Cray the head Peacekeeper caught us. Faster than I did when my mother found out about that escapade. I trip over something. A pale shoulder; some red hair. I'm still running.

_You'd better run_. My mother's voice echoes over and over, like a mantra in my head and I imagine her chasing me through the square with a bread paddle, like she used to do. The neighbors would come out and watch the spectacle, sometimes laughing, sometimes sneering.

I glance behind me to see if anyone else has made it out. Then I see her. My mother pursuing me, paddle in hand, yelling like anything. I push myself even faster, due to the livid expression on her face. She's never looked this angry. I wonder what I've done to upset her.

I cry out as the paddle lashes me on the back. I'm still running, but where? It's hard to think of anything but my mother. The lake. The lake. Which way is that? I see someone in front of me. Who? My father? My brother? Mr. Cartwright from the sweet shop, who always seemed to be able to keep my mother from going on a rampage? I don't know, but I keep running towards him, trying to keep pace.

A jab hits my ribs. I don't even have enough air to scream out in pain, but I do anyway, I do, and I nearly pass out. I feet aren't as fleet as they were when I first woke to the attack, and I'm finding it harder and harder to jump over the roots and rocks on the ground. Why are there roots and rocks on the ground all of a sudden though? I'm in the town square – I know I am, I can hear my feet pounding the paving stones. I'm headed toward the Seam – oh, mom's going to be mad. I look back. She's not there anymore, not within my line of sight. But then again, there's nothing there. Nothing but blackness. I'm starting to find that more terrifying than my mother was, this darkness, threatening to swallow me up, catching my heels like a turned-up rug and making me trip. I hurl into a pool of blood and everything goes black.

I cough up water. My lungs are at least half-full of it and I'm soaked. How did I get here? Better question: Where is _here_? I sit up and look around. It's about twilight. That's the first clear thought I can form. Good. Rational thought. There's a fire to my left. There are three bodies to my left.

_Bodies?_

Panic wraps itself around my shoulders and pulls me back. When I wake, I'm staring up in Ruby's face. She looks pretty, though her picture is distorted, like some giant finger painter has painted her image onto the sky. An anguished howl sounds somewhere off behind me.

"_Cato, calm down_." I hear Clove's voice as if from underwater. I'm lying on my left side and I roll over. I can hear her more clearly now.

"You were going to have to kill her eventually," Marvel says, soothingly. The words do nothing to console Cato, from whom the agonized yowls are emanating, I'm guessing.

"No!" Cato shouts, his voice raw, "No! I would have thought us both out!"

"Cato, _shh_."

I groan. Everyone falls silent, even Cato.

"He's alive," someone else, probably Comet, says. I'm surprised Glimmer hasn't rushed over here yet, or said anything. She owes me.

"Loverboy?" Clove calls out tentatively. "You okay?"

No, I think. "Yes," I try to say.

They hear me. "Give him some of that stuff," Marvel orders.

"Why?" Cato says bitterly. "Just let him die. We'll have to kill him anyway."

Marvel shoves something into my hands. "For your stings," he says.

I look up at him groggily. "Wha…?"

Clove snatches the whatever-it-is from me. "Your stings. It's antibiotics or something." I feel her fingers smooth something onto my collarbone. That's what makes me feel the three other points on my body pulse with pain. I grit my teeth and sit up, taking the white container from her.

"Why are you helping me?" I ask. I don't even know why at the moment, but something in me tells me that I'm not supposed to be trusting Clove. I immediately rub some blue cream into my ear. My head clears significantly after that. I remember learning about tracker jackers in school. A sting to the head can cause brain damage, and more likely, death. I hope I haven't sustained any brain damage. I've had this sting for at least twelve hours.

"Well, I don't have the strength to drag your dead body away, and frankly, I don't want it stinking up the place. So, try to stay alive, please. I already hauled you out of the lake once."

So the lake was the blood-pool… and Clove was the one who had pulled me out of the blood – lake – to save me from drowning. Yes, this was starting to make a lot of sense.

* * *

><p><strong>OMG I am just cringing about how freakin bad that was! That is what I get for not using a beta (not that I enjoying using people. That was an unfortunate choice of words, but I am too lazy to change it). Anyway, Sanctuaria and I are obviously equally busy with life. Probably Sanctuaria more so than me. Oh well. The life of loser and a terrible writer :(<br>Take pity on me and review, please? I said that I was gonna do shoutouts, but I lied :/ Only because I need to go to bed, sorry. Just kidding, I'm a vampire, so I never need to go to bed. I just need to suck people blood. So review, or I'll suck your blood, okay? Capeesh? Yeah.  
>Seriously, more people than usual reviewed that last chapter, so if we could just stick with that trend, I'll be a happy camper :) And sorry for the sucky chapter. Something's better than nothing, right? Ehh... Oh well<br>Good night y'all xo**

**-seastar**


	25. Chapter 24

**A/N: I have some business to attend to. So: **

**A foreword on Clove: I know everything she says that Katniss hears Is vicious and cruel, particularly regarding Peeta, even more particularly when she says, "Cato knows where he cut him." Her attitude toward her fellow Careers pretty much completely contradicts her words. I am working out a solution to that (although I'm not even really sure that it's a problem).**  
><strong>A word of warning: It will be lame, and more than likely, dumb. SO DEAL WITH IT. Just kidding x) But yeah. Just a warning. The reason why I decided to make the Careers, like, nice is because I just thought that there is so much more a person than pointless, angsty teenage homicide, no?<strong>

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins does. I just keep forgetting to put disclaimers on these chapters haha. **

**Anyway, now that that's taken care of, I'm sorry. This is ****_so bad. _****It is ****_so bad. _****It is so bad that I want to throw up. I really don't feel that good right now :( and it's raining... can this day get any worse? *sigh* Anyway, I have a piece of good news: THE CAVE SCENE IS DEFINITELY FREAKING IN THE NEXT CHAPTER! Well, partially. Okay, at least a little. I am really excited! Anyway, most of this is fluff, so be mad, be disgusted, I don't blame you because this really sucks. So now that I've discouraged you so much you can read it. **

* * *

><p>"What are we supposed to do now?" asks Comet. He's sitting cross legged on the ground, chewing on some kind of water plant, halfway inside the circle of firelight, half way out of it. He just reached right in and yanked it out by the roots, which were secured on the bank of the lake.<p>

"How did you find that?" I ask. I doubt Comet ever lived near any bodies of water, and he doesn't seem like the kind of guy to be caught hanging around the edible plants station in the Training Center.

Comet swallows. "Ruby showed it to me, last time we were here. Well, actually, the time before that. She said it was called Katniss."

My heart does a little somersault. Katniss. [Add more here].

"It's too bad she died," Comet continues.

I glare at him.

He holds his hands up. "Easy, there, Loverboy. It's a shame, really. I didn't like Star half as much as I liked her, and I knew her for, what? Eight days?"

Clove has her ears perked up, listening to our conversation intently. "Katniss," she says. "That sounds familiar, right Cato?"

Cato grunts. I wouldn't expect him to know Katniss's name. He probably never watched the news channel while we were in the Capitol, for one, and two, he called her Eleven Girl. I'm not even sure that he knows _my_ name anymore.

Marvel snaps his fingers. "It's that girl's name from District Twelve," he says triumphantly, though without much glee. His eyes are red and Glimmer's death is taking its toll on him. "Loverboy's girlfriend."

"Huh, funny, I thought that was Ruby," Clove remarks. Cato makes an indignant noise.

"She was named after a weed," Marvel smiles a little.

"A tasty weed, at least," Comet says, grabbing another from the water and tossing it to Marvel. "Try it."

Marvel takes a bite. "Not bad," he admits. "What's that on your arm, Comet?"

Comet looks down at his left arm. "A mole. Why?" he asks, suspicious.

"Not that arm, moron, the other one." Marvel rolls his eyes.

"This thing? It's just - eww, what is it?" Comet holds his arm out to Clove.

"I don't know," she says."Ruby - wait. Never mind. You know, Loverboy? You've been awfully quiet."

After an examination, I have a verdict. "It's a leech."

"A leech?" Clove wrinkles her nose. "What's a leech?" she asks.

"It lives in the water and sucks your blood. Kind of like a water-borne mosquito. Except, it doesn't like be detached from the victim."

"More like a water-borne tick, then," Marvel points out. "How do we get it off him?"

"The best way would be to burn it off," I say. I really don't know, though; my leech knowledge has been exhausted. "Or we could just stab the leech until it dies. But that would be pretty bloody."

"Get it off me," Comet says. "I feel faint."

"Very funny," Marvel says, taking out his knife.

"No, really I -"

"Hey," Clove says, "put that in the fire, Marv. We can cut it _and_ burn it at the same time."

"Now we're talking," I say, nodding my head approvingly. Peeta _Mellark: on top of the situation even when he's not._ Yup. That's me.

Marvel hesitates. "Are you sure? I don't want to get too near Cato..."

I'm assuming the unmoving lump by the fire would be Cato.

Clove rolls her eyes. "One, he can hear you, two, what do you think he's going to do? He's not going to attack you. Are you, Cato?"

"I make no guarantees," Cato mumbles. At least he can still joke.

Clove gives Marvel a shove. "You should see him when he's really upset. The last time I did -" She tugs on the hem of her shirtsleeve, revealing her shoulder. There's a fading scar, seemingly the imprint of a hand and fingers.

"After his dad died," Clove explains. "I think I tried to hug him, and he freaked out. There began our friendship, ironically."

I want to ask more - it's strangely intriguing to me, the relationships between the other tributes prior to the Games. Star and Comet evidently weren't close; Glimmer and Marvel were probably childhood acquaintances; Ruby and Rex - was that his name? - it seemed like they had just met, but became fast friends. And Cato and Clove... I don't know exactly.

Comet groans. He looks pale in the firelight. His cheekbones are shadowed and his eyes look like deep pits.

He collapses. Clove sighs. "Damn. These are arena leeches, not the garden variety. What now, Loverboy?" She kneels beside Comet and starts taking his pulse.

I shrug, joining her on the sandy ground. "On with the plan. How're his vitals?"

"Normal." She frowns and removes her fingers from Comet's neck."Hurry up with that knife, Marvel!"

Who knew Clove could be nurturing? It's strange to watch her, while her protective instinct is equally as high as her instinct to fight. I wonder where the bloodlust went.

I feel my eyelids droop and have to fight to keep them open. It's about four in the morning, I'd guess by the position of the moon. None of us have slept a wink. There are extra supplies at the Cornucopia, but we agreed hours ago to wait until morning to replenish our stock. And though we've made it through many nights on the unspoken agreement to not stab each other in the back, no one is exactly at ease tonight, not since Glimmer and Ruby's deaths.

My stings feel a little bit better; they're still swollen as ever, but the hallucinations stopped hours ago. I'm not allowed anymore blue cream, though; apparently it's multi-purpose and half-gone.

"Here," Marvel says, handing the knife to Clove. "Careful," he adds, fumbling with it. "It's hot."

"You take this one, Loverboy," Clove says, still under the impression that I know what I'm doing better than she does. Either that or her hand is shaking too badly to be trusted with a blade. I'm thinking the latter.

I take the knife in one hand and Comet's arm in the other.

Comet groans. He looks pallid, his cheeks sallow and lips bloodless.

I lay the flat of the blade on the little critter. The tail flicks, but nothing more. The heat radiating off the metal burns my hand. I'll have a blister, undoubtedly.

Gritting my teeth, I rotate the knife and press the edge of the blade into the leech. Its tail thrashes, blood drips down Comet's arm, though whether it's his or the leech's is unclear. The thing has swollen to the approximate size and shape of a small carrot.

"Just tell me if I break the skin," I tell Comet. I start scoring the leech lengthwise, making three, four, five cuts until it stops moving.

"He really is handy with that knife," I hear Clove whisper to Marvel. Both of them are obviously watching my surgical procedure carefully – from what I hear, I'm doing well. The leech shudders – and falls.

Comet's breathing slows, his eyes close, and his body relaxes. In fact, everyone relaxes, myself included.

"He's okay, right?" Clove twists her hands together. They glisten with sweat, and it's as if she is wringing them out. She drops to her knees. I still can't believe how vulnerable her composure is. At the beginning of the Games, she would have never kept such an unguarded stance – right now, I think of how easy it would be for Marvel or myself to simply draw a knife and stab her in the back. I glance over at the other boy. He's watching Clove, his eyes trained on the back of her neck. Somehow, I can't see any homicidal thoughts running through his head.

"He's fine," I say. "I think. There might be some more… ill-effects, but we'll have to wait and see. Put some of that blue cream on it."

Clove obeys, then looks up at me. Her brown eyes look hazel in the moon and firelight. "If you did anything that hurt him…"

I am taken aback, though I know I shouldn't be. "No, of course not. I just wish we could somehow get that blood back inside him." I look at the leech, discarded on the sand, laying there in a pool of Comet's blood. Blood that he needs. "I don't supposed either of you knows how to do a transfusion?"

Marvel and Clove look helpless. I didn't think so. "Let's get some rest. There's nothing else we can do to help him until morning." Hopefully it won't be the cannon that wakes us. I sigh. I don't know which Peeta I am now. Old Peeta would never even consider helping the Careers, let alone saving one's life. But New Peeta wouldn't even consider helping _anyone. _

Whichever one of us it is takes up residence beside the fire, where it's warmest. Clove and Marvel stay with Comet. I don't have a sleeping bag, and my pack will have to suffice for a pillow, though its contents render it an uncomfortable lump. The last thing I see before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep are Cato's glittering eyes, shining with dancing flames.

My eyes flick under my eyelids. They won't life for some reason, they feel sticky and heavy. My head feels cloudy. I can't feel much, but all of a sudden my limbs feel like they're being set on fire, one by one, my legs, my arms. My lungs are feel like they're being sat on, a bellows that can't blow Why am I even awake?

"This is how it ends," a voice above me says. Sadness. Anger. Those are the emotions that I can clearly detect. "It's a lot nicer, suffocation, than death by something that you didn't even know could kill you. You know, Ruby saw one of those bees. Whatever they were, wasps, whatever, she saw one. She said "Cato, isn't that pretty?" and it landed on her finger and she laughed. For the last time."

I try to choke out some words. _"Cato. I didn't know either. It's not even my fault."_ My speech is garbled.

Suddenly, the pressure from my neck is gone and a hand strikes my face. "Argh!" I exclaim, gasping for air, scrabbling at my throat, feeling the pain and the blood gushing from my nose. I don't think it's broken, but it hurts like anything.

"What were you _thinking _when you saved Eleven Girl, huh? What was going through your head? What were you thinking when you saw Ruby dead on the ground?"

So Cato blames me for Ruby's death. "I didn't –" I try reasoning, but Cato cuts me off with a roar.

"_What is going on?_" Comet's voice. The others murmur, too, roused out of their sleep. I hardly have time to register the fact that he's alright before my focus is shifted to the knife in Cato's hand.

It glints in the sun. The world is still coming back in bits and pieces. The sun is about halfway over the horizon. Not a cloud in the sky. There's even a star twinkling in the distance, somewhere out in space. I'm glad I see it, because it's at that moment that the knife comes down, and I'm sure that the star is going to be my last sight.

"Cato!" someone cries out. "Cato, stop!"

A blinding pain drives through my leg. I scream, louder than I've ever screamed in my entire life. I scream until my voice is raw, until tears stream down my face.

"It's done," Cato says, as I roll around, clutching my leg, trying to staunch the flow of blood. I'm crying like a baby; I've never been in so much pain before, not in any way, shape, or form.

"Cato, he didn't do anything!"

"He killed Ruby!"

"He didn't kill her, that was the hallucinations from those bugs, you idiot!"

It's taken me a little while to identify the voice that is battling with Cato's, but I recognize it as Clove's.

I can hear Cato's breathing, ragged as my own. "What?" His voice is quieter now, but I can't tell if it's because he lowered it, or because the pounding in my ears in drowning it out.

"The bugs killed her, not Peeta, Cato," Clove says. She nudges me with her foot. "Loverboy?"

I open my eyes slowly, one at a time. All four of the Careers are standing over me. Their faces are distorted, like I'm seeing through a water wall.

"Someone get something on that," Clove says. She must be talking about my stab wound. I agree with her statement, but no one moves.

"It's too late," Comet says. I see his lips moving before I hear the words. My vision blurs, and there is nothing.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay, there. The end of the boring chapters. I am seriously hyped for the Cave Scene. I think that's gonna be at least 3 chapters. It's weird becuase I've literally been waiting for like a year (actually it was a year 4 days ago that I started this story, I think. Happy anniversary!) to write this part. Haha, and I couldn't wait to start writing Catching Fire, so I've already written like 12,000 words on that, which is like 6 chapters. Now, here's a little supplement to the reading that you just did:<strong>

**_Standard procedure for removing a leech:_**** Peeta was right: the best way to remove a leech is to burn it (or to squeezing the friggin daylights out of the nasty little bugger). Stabbing is probably a close second. Honestly, I would probably do anything to get that ugly, disgusting little gross leech off me.**  
><strong>Off topic: Just after I thought of this brilliantly awesome plot device (haha, yeah, NOT), my cousin told me that he had a leech on his finger. It just fell off. That could be your third option, given that the life is not being sapped out of you by a hungry Capitol leech. That was your science lesson for today. You're welcome.<strong>

**Anyway, hope you enjoyed! Review, please, please, please, please, please, please,please, please, please, please, please don't ignore all of the these pleases! I've been really happy with the reviews lately, so keep up the good work! **

**Thanks for reading!  
>-seastar<strong>


	26. Chapter 25

**A/N: If anyone goes back and decides to read the the actual Hunger Games book after reading this story, then they will notice that I made a whole bunch of mistakes. Like the fact that Comet was supposed to be "ashen-faced" and useless, or that Ruby probably wasn't even supposed to be a Career in the first place, or that the Careers tracker jacker stings were still really bad when Katniss went to explode the food. Well, it's a good thing I like making mistakes. Just kidding, I really hate it, and that is why I make up a bunch of stuff that fixes/explains my mistakes. So, if you ever find a mistake, just tell me, and I will give you an answer/explanation to it, even if it is as simple as "I meant to do that." But I really had no idea that Cato ended up killing Comet. Yikes. Oh well. I mean, that's sad, but oh well. It just reinforces my point that Cato basically does all he does out of anger. **

**Yeah, now that that's out of the way, I can tell you that I'm sorry:( I led! The Cave Scene is not in this chapter D: I tried to draw it outSao it would be long enough to get there, butunit didn't work out. I'm so sorry! Anyway, you can read what I have, right?**

* * *

><p><em>Slap, slap, slap.<em> That's the sound I wake to. That and sun shining through my eyelids. I groan, assessing the function of all my senses. I can hear the water lapping up on the shore. I'm by the lake. I can taste the metallic tinge of blood my mouth. I smell the blood too, though it's a bit difficult to breathe and the scent makes me nauseous.

I can't even begin to say what I feel. First and foremost in the pain in my leg. I've had injuries before, but none as bad as this one. I try to shift my focus away from it. There's the pain in my nose battling for my attention as well, but I distract myself from that by grinding my elbow into the sand while trying to prop myself up. There's a sharp pain behind my ear, and in the other places where I've been stung by the tracker jackers. Why? The antibiotic cream seemed to work. The stingers? No, I'm fairly certain Clove pulled them out. Whatever it is, the pain has returned full-force, thankfully without the hallucinations. The swelling's back too, though, and it's all I can not to tear at the lumps until they're raw.

I haven't even opened my eyes yet. They're gritting and sticky, like I've been crying. Maybe I have. The sun is on the eastern horizon. I wonder how long I've been out for. Just the night? Or has another full day passed? It seems reasonable; the only people who could really be of any threat to me, the Careers, well, they're the ones who left me here – to die, presumably. I'm surprised by how easily all of this is coming back to me, how clearly. I'm kind of doubting just how real my recollections are. Was it really just last night that Comet had that leech on his finger? Or that Cato stabbed me? I have to remind myself that I don't know for sure.

If only I can find someone does pull myself into a sitting position, which makes my legs ache. As far as I can tell, though, the bleeding has stopped. I wonder if there's anyone left who will still make an alliance with me. I doubt it; teams are usually formed early on in or prior to the Games. The only problem is, if they're not allied with me, then they probably will want to kill me.

There's four Careers left - Clove, Cato, Marvel, and Comet. As far as I know, Katniss is still out there, and maybe out for my blood. Anyone who thought that I was anything more than an honorary member of the Careers pack probably will be. There's Thresh and Rue from 11. The girl from 5 with the red hair, like Ruby's - Reesa, and possibly the boy from Ten with the limp.

If I can find any of them, will they make nice with nice with me? Or am I too much of a liability at this point? I imagine that I could make friends with my fellow cripple - because, all things considered, if I do make it out of here, which is highly unlikely, I won't have the ability to walk anymore - but would that be enough? No, not at all.

What abou Rue? Like me, the little girl doesn't look like she could hurt a fly? But she wouldn't be able to protect me, obviously, and it'd too much to even ask her to.

That leaves... Everyone else. I doubt that Katniss would want me on her team, plus, were to come down to the two of us... I don't finish that thought.

Thresh - well, frankly, Thresh doesn't look particularly friendly. Neither does the red-haired girl from 5.

Bottom line, the only tributes that I could actually ally with are cripples or little kids. I need someone who can protect me while I heal - for what? So I can kill them when I recover? Some repayment.

No, I've wasted my time even thinking of this option. There's only one real option for me now: Death. Possibly I could wait it out, see if someone finds me before the end does. Somewhere safer than here, of course. Somewhere hidden, if I can get there.

_If I can get there_. A part of me knows that I can, at the very least, drag myself a few hundred yards - but that may be the end of my strength. The other part of me wants to lay here and die with the life just slowly draining out of me through this gash in my leg.

I don't move. Not for a while, anyway. I don't feel like sleeping, but my eyes are closed.

I don't move. Not for a while, anyway. I don't feel like sleeping, but my eyes are closed, shut tightly against the rising sun. The only thing that prompts me to move is the noon sun, beating down on me. In my jacket, I start collecting sweat and overheating fast. So I start the crawl.

I don't know where to, but I keep my eyes open for any suitable hiding places. At first I would have thought staying dormant for so long would have gotten me rested up, at least a little. On the contrary.

I don't know where to, but I keep my eyes open for any suitable hiding places. At first I literally am crawling on all fours, moving sluggishly. Then after a little while, I pull myself up to my feet, my back drooping, my head down and taking the full force of the sun as I shade my eyes. I would have thought staying dormant for so long would have gotten me rested up, at least a little. On the contrary. I feel drained and weak; my muscles ache and every step sends jagged spikes of pain through my leg that circulate around my entire body like an electric shock, traveling through my blood.

My hand stays clutched around the jacket. It may be hot now, but I know that I will need it later, if the nights get cold, which is entirely possible here in the arena. So far, having been with the Careers, the elements haven't yet posed much of a problem. I have a feeling things will be different now that I am on my own without the aid of sleeping bags and the company of at least four others.

I keep walking, keep wondering if I will run into anyone else. The path that I'm on seems utterly deserted though. Good. If someone does come along, there is no way I can defend myself and very little chance that whoever it is will spare me.

A cannon fire nearly scares me out of my wits. I stand up ramrod straight, my heart pounding.

I haven't even bothered looking at my surroundings much, only the fact that the ground it dry and parched. I see everything through hypersensitive eyes – I have the adrenaline rush to thank for that.

The leaves on the trees are yellowing from the heat; even the vines, winding their way up into the braches, are drying and shriveling up. There are birds holed up in their nests, trying to stay cool, and the forest is still, save for the motion the reverberating sound waves of the blast caused.

The sky is the last thing I notice. With the sun halfway up, it looks unbelievably blue, unreal, like the hue that my father once mixed for the icing on my brother's birthday cake. I think errantly Cole would like this color – blue is his favorite.

There's not a cloud in sight, not an imperfection in this wide expanse of unendingness. Then I see the hovercraft.

It flies right over me, low, a silent rush of air. And it stops about a half mile away. I stand rooted in place. I watch the claw descend, seemly get a grip on the body, and jerk up. It comes away shining and holding a fistful of mud.

I can't immediately identify the body - it is swollen and weirdly distorted. Not like Glimmer's body, but kind of pruny, like my fingers and toes get after a bath or a long shower. A lifeless leg swings around, nothing but skin and bones.

Water drips from the claw as the body is deposited safely inside the hovercraft. _Who was that?_ I think. It didn't look like any of the Careers. Plus, they body was wet and they were headed away from the lake. No, it couldn't have been Clove or Marvel or Comet or Cato.

Could it have been Rue? No, the body was too big and she's too small.

Thresh? No, the body was too small to have been him. Who else is there?

The girl from District 5? No, I just don't think it was her.

Katniss? No, she's much too smart to have drowned. Then I have another thought: what if whoever it was drowned themselves?

It must have been the boy from District 10. The cripple. Why? Did he lose his will to live? Or did someone force him under?

I know I don't have time to puzzle over the situation. I start walking again, more purposefully, checking the ground every so often for signs of water before I become dehydrated, and signs of life before I go hungry.

Actually, too late for the latter. I can't remember the last time I ate. I've been able to forget the empty feeling in my stomach, or at least ignore it, until now. What I wouldn't give for a banana, or even a saltine cracker right now. I sigh and start examining the tree for nuts or berries of some sort.

My stomach growls and only a minute or two later, my leg starts giving me trouble again. I'm crashing from my adrenaline high, hard. I start sweating and it becomes harder to keep my eyes open. I start thinking that it I could ever earn any points in the stealth department, it would mean nothing, because my stomach's ridiculously loud growling would give me away to any predator. Each of my footfalls sounds like a mountain tumbling down, their frequency gradually slows until I can't go any further.

I sit under a tree, propping myself up on the trunk, panting. I've been incredibly lucky today, I realize, in the fact that I haven't come across another soul. Not so lucky in the fact that I haven't got any food, water, or survival supplies in general. I know the camera must have been on me for a fair amount of time. So where is Haymitch? He must know about my situation - the whole of Panem probably does.

_He's probably too drunk to care_, Peeta thinks - whether it's Old Peeta or New Peeta, I am too tired to figure out. I walked for a long time - three or four hours at least, and I covered a lot of ground.

I yawn and I fall asleep, shaded from the mid-afternoon light by the branches of my tree.

_BOOM_. A loud explosion tears me the sleep's warm, soft hand. My eyes fly open and I start. "What the –?" _BOOM_. Another explosion, louder than the cannon shots, much deeper, more powerful and resonant. Birds are disturbed and flee in flocks. Leaves quiver and fall to the earth, which is still shaking.

I cover my ears, prepared for another blast. Not even the mine explosions back in 12 were so violent, though I supposed those were underground for the most part. What could have caused them? Nothing short of a bomb detonation - or several by the sounds of it.

I think of the bombs that go off when a tribute violated the very first rule when entering the arena: Stay on the plate. Thankfully, nobody broke that one this year. But that would mean that the mines were still buried underground. Is it possible that someone could have dug them up?

There's no point in trying to figure out exactly what happened. It's evening, now, with only a sliver of sunlight left to see by. I need to find a place to stay for the night, unless I want to travel into the morning. I've slept long enough - noon until dusk - and I've conserved a good bit of energy.

My stomach growls. There's also that problem. My stomach feels like it's digesting itself.

There's a few more explosions, set off at random. They don't startle me as must as the first did. It's time to get moving again. I feel like I'm dragging myself out of bed, getting up, only worse. I feel like I'm dragging myself out of bed with a broken leg, a concussion, and a sprained wrist, none of which have received proper medical attention.

It starts getting colder and colder, until the temperature drops to what must be below freezing. I'm glad that I brought my jacket along now. I stick my hands in the pocket for warmth.

I feel something in the left-hand pocket. At first I think it might be an animal or something. But when I prod the object, it doesn't respond to my stimulus. My cold fingers wrap around it.

I pulled out a plastic-covered lump. The sight of it makes me stop walking, and I stumble over a protruding root. These are the cookies that Portia smuggled to me at the start of the Games.

It could have been a million years ago, for all my recollection of it - I have no idea how many days I've been in the arena.

I'm not sure if they're still good - at the bakery my father recommends that the cookies not be kept for more than four or five days - and I'm not sure whether the cameras are on me or not. But this is the arena. It's long past mattering where I got these cookies - and I am long past caring whether or or not these cookies are past their date of expiration.

I recall the recipe for this certain type of cookie. Chocolate chip. I know it by heart, though it's not often that we have a shipment of chocolate to make a batch with.

Flour, sugar, water, butter, chocolate, vanilla, and an egg. Not the most sustaining food in the world, but I bite into it anyway.

Just the motion of chewing feels foreign to me now, though I was no stranger to it prior to the Games. The chocolate obviously melted at some point, but the current temperature has caused them to solidify again.

There's six cookies here. Should I ration them out? Will I survive long enough to have to? I settle for two. They're a little hard on my taste buds, bring so sweet, anyway. Compared to these, the Career food that I've been eating tastes like dirt.

The cookies give me enough energy to go until morning. The nightly death toll brought me news of Comet's death. I wonder how he died. That explosion? I feel a little pang; I knew Comet. I saved his life. And now he's dead.

It's truly amazing that I've been able to come this far on a bad leg. A miracle. But once I'm down, I'm down for good.

It takes me by surprise, the snake. Slithering through the mud, his eyes catch the last of the night's moonlight in a pale glint. I've always had a natural aversion to snakes - slimy creatures that my mother once said "have no worth in the world." I can't help but a agree with her on that one.

It rears its ugly head up, takes a swipe at me. I yelp, slip, and fall backward.

The snake makes its escape before it can be crushed under my body weight. But now I'm stuck here in the mud, with nothing to eat but a few cookies, and nothing to do but wait on death.

* * *

><p><strong>That's all for now. I'm really sorry about the Cave part and the not updating. I've been really busy with school and stuff. Ugh. Yeah, so... I usually has a lot more to say, but I have other stuff to do. Toodles! Thanks for reading :D<strong>

**-seastar**

**P.S. I'm sorry for any weird formatting issues... I used my iPod and the copy and paste doc uploaded for this. Not worth the hassle, but it helped me get this chapter out.**


	27. Chapter 26

**A/N: Um, sorry haha. This morning when I was updating, I didn't even think of putting an author's note for the chapter for some reason. Probably because I haven't updated in like a month since school started, and I forgot what to do. Anyways, here it is now, FINALLY. CAVE SCENE COMING UP NEXT! Enough said. I swear this time, y'all, it is coming. With that, I'll leave you to read, k? I still have a lot to say, so, see the bottom, please, my darlings. This chapter has been a long time coming.**

**And: OMG! I AM SO FRIGGIN EXCITED! CATCHING FIRE (the movie) IS FILMING IN ATLANTA! And guess who lives (near) there? ME! So my and best friend and I are headed down there this weekend to see what we can see. I can't really see myself beng starstruck, but if I ever meet Jennifer Lawrence or/and Josh Hutcherson, I will literally faint. OMG.  
>I found out that to keep things quiet, they are using a working name for the movie. I don't want to be sued or whatever, so look it up yourselves, but I've seen the signs that have the name! And Liam and Jennifer are staying right where I used to live! OMG. I cannot stop fangirlling. I will keep you guys posted and see what happens!<strong>

**I somehow reminded myself to put this:  
>DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins does. <strong>

* * *

><p>I groan. How long have I been out? An hour? A day? More?<p>

There are no signs that I can go on, no indicators that can tell me what's happened between the time I conked out and now. I'm wet, though. I'd even go as far as say soaked.

Water laps against my side. I hadn't realized it before, but I must have collapsed on the bank of the stream. The water rushes and roars in my ears like a pulse, much steadier than my own is at the moment.

"…the same district." Is that Caesar Flickerman I'm hearing? "You heard right. Under this new rule, the final two remaining tributes, if from the same district, will be declared victors. Both will be declared victors. That is all."

My first thought is that I must be dreaming. Never in the history of any Hunger Games, so far as I know, has there been such a dramatic twist. This is something that children will be taught about a hundred years from now in school, just as I was taught that nothing like this would ever occur.

My second thought is that, even if my district partner is still alive, I'll either be dead before she finds me, or she won't have the mercy to save me. She must know that I teamed up with the Careers, and I think she hated me even before that. My initial idea to save her was to redeem myself in her eyes before I died. Maybe she knows that I didn't ever mean her any harm. Either way, now's not the time to get my hopes up, because as it stands, the odds are not in my favor.

I put a hand on my leg. It comes away bloody. Great. I drag myself into a sitting position to take a closer look. I don't remove my trousers – I won't admit it to myself, but I am too afraid of seeing what is underneath the cloth – but through the tear that Cato's knife made, I can see some that the gash is red, swollen, and dirty.

What should I do? Use my jacket to bind the wound? It's pretty grimy; I'm not sure that would help anything. I could cut my shirt sleeve off and use that as a bandage – but what could I cut it with? All the little stones here have been rounded into small, smooth, glossy-looking pebbles and I left my dagger, my pack, and all its contents at the lake – a stupid move, I now realize.

A sparrow swoops down to collect one with its beak, cleaving it in half with on swift snap of its avian jaw before depositing one of the halves in its stomach to aid digestion.

I should be alarmed – no bird should be able to chop rocks – but I'm too concerned about my leg to be bothered. I do realize, though, that the hollow empty feeling in my stomach is gone, and the sandpapery feeling in my throat isn't nearly as prominent. That's pretty strange, but I'm glad that I don't have to worry about dinner, especially since I have no means of obtaining it.

It's hard to believe that no one has come to find me and/or kill me. I'm grateful now, for that. At first, Katniss was my prerogative; now I'm just happy that _I'm_ still alive. I wonder what became of her… Would the cannon have awakened me with its loud fire to alert of the death of a tribute? Or has Katniss already been killed by the Careers?

I refuse to think like that. She outwitted them before – though she almost ran smack into Cato during the whole tracker jacker debacle. But she's practically been roughing it her whole life, right? She'll be fine.

None of these thoughts calm my growing sense of unease.

I start trying to pull myself up, though it's a struggle, and I'm not really in the fighting mood. My red hand slips on a boulder that stands beside me and I go down, my butt hitting the muddy riverbed hard.

_Cover your trail, Peeta. _I hear the voice in my head. It sounds like… _Haymitch_. Haymitch, who has sent me noting, done nothing to aid my in any way, shape, or form in this arena. I look at the bloodstain on the boulder. _Cover your trail, you idiot,_ the voice repeats.

I wipe the blood away with the remains of my bloody, torn shirt. A little Haymitch in my head. Now I know I must be going crazy. I'm truly worried for my sanity now.

I hike as far as I can down the river - about two feet. _I'll let the current carry me the rest of the way_. Haymitch snorts. I roll my eyes. _You know, while you're in there, I'd really live some food and bandages, and a little of that blue stuff that Clove had_, I think.

I feel Haymitch grin. It's painful, gives me a splitting head ache. _If you're not going to help me, get out of my head_.

The stream is deeper here, probably as deep as streams ever get. Well, that'll have to be enough for me. I stiffen my body and let the current drag me down with the debris from the fire, fallen branches from the explosions that rocked the air hours ago, and other things, tribute things that were left behind. It all floats around me.

About four hundred yards from my starting point is a drop-off, like a small-scale waterfall. I feel it before I see, but there's nothing I can do.

I fall a foot or two and land hard on my leg and it's all I can do to keep from crying out like a banshee. What escapes my mouth is more like an injured puppy dog noise. I realize how unsafe it is to be traveling on the water - sure the stream is doing most of the moving for me, which is essential right now, but how many tributes need water? All of us. How many are probably willing to kill me? All of them, except maybe Katniss, and that's a fairly sizable "maybe".

I need a place to hide, like I said before. To die, which, at this point, with this leg, is inevitable. The time has come and gone to find a bush or a hollow tree trunk, or even a hole in the ground. There are no more of those around. There's nothing but the water and everything in it.

My mind waders back to the training center. Two weeks ago, now. That's it. The climbing, the lifting of weights, the lunch. The novelty of survival. The painting and plant identifying. Being with someone. I miss all of those things. Nothing can replace the feeling of human closeness. I wonder if anyone has ever died of loneliness.

I hear something. It jolts me out of my state. _Go, boy_, Haymitch prompts. There's a rustling somewhere down the river, and I've got no super-hearing, thanks to those explosions. Whatever it is, it's obviously close. Too close for comfort.

There's only one place to go. Shove myself as far away as I can from the rocks on the side on the stream. I just hope it's deep enough here; it never gets more than six feet wide or so. I grimace when my injured leg gets left behind and the seam of my pants splits on a jagged rock. Then I dive under.

I have no choice but to open my eyes. The water's clear, but for the red tinge of the blood that's spiraling off the gash in my leg. I see the river bed - sandy and muddy and rocky - and a few guppies - all too small to eat. Lucky I'm not hungry. There are a few choked aquatic plants - a triangular shaped leaf and a few stick-straight stalks. I grab for those, but I can't be sure if they're actually in my grasp until I surface.

The good news is I can't drown. Not easily, at least: The water is too shallow for that. I never learned to swim. My father once explained the concept to me in a story - he said that, once, there was a pond, and during the summer all the kids from the square would go to swim. The Seam kids came, too. I imagine that as the only time they came together in harmony. The Seam kids taught the Square kids to swim. Then, one day, some officials came and that was the end of that.

Now I paddle my arms and kick my one operating leg, moving closer to the bottom as my lungs get closer to bursting. Hopefully, whatever danger was there has passed. I need to take a breath.

The air stings my eyes when I break the surface. I paddle as best I can to the bank of the stream. The current must have carried me downwind, because my boulder is out of sight. In my fist are the water plants the pulled up from the stream bed, roots and all. I see a drop off where the stream ends a few hundred feet ahead. I grope my way along the shore dragging my body behind me.

Once I'm there, all dirt and grime that the river washed away is back tenfold. I don't think I've ever been this dirty in my entire life. I can barely see my limbs.

That's when I get an idea. The mud between my fingers – it's the perfect camouflage. That's why they teach you in the training center, I bet, but in all my years of watching the Games on television, I've never seen a tribute catch on.

I can't really see what I'm doing on my face, which is a slight impairment, but I can feel the texture of the rocks on my skin, and I try to let my hands recreate the bumpy patterns where my eyes can't see.

When I'm finished, I feel like one with the earth. The last – and maybe only – smart move of my life. I imagined my last days would be somewhat happier than this. The thought that I might be in the Games only crossed my mind but once or twice. Now I can't believe I didn't see it. I would have been so much better, had I known it would end like this. A pang of loneliness hits me again. _Better get used to it_. _Nobody's following you were you're going, _Haymitch thinks. Or maybe it's New Peeta. Maybe it's Old Peeta; I don't know, and at this point I don't care.

_Peeta. Peeta. _

I groan. How long have I been out? An hour? A day? More?

"Peeta." I start. I thought I heard someone calling my name, whispering. That's what woke me. "Peeta," a mockingjay coos out. The birds in the forest echo the melody. Two notes.

Once more I hear my name. "Peeta." A boot comes into my line of vision. I close my eyes, hoping my disguise will be enough to shield me.

"Peeta." Hang on. I recognize that voice, though I didn't really hear much of it before the arena. Its owner, more often than not, sat in stony silence, arms crossed, opposite Effie at the dinner table.

I hear the squelch of boots in the mud.

"You hear to finish me off, sweetheart?" Haymitch asks in my rusty voice.

The boot squelches stop. There's a moment of silence. I can't tell what's going on. My eyes are crusted shut with mud and probably tears.

"Peeta? Where are you?"

_"Right under your feet,"_ I'm about to say. The toe of her right boot is just about on my ear. "Peeta?"

"Well don't step on me." I open my eyes. I don't have any hands to wipe them with, and dirt particles slip through my eyelashes. Katniss jumps back, taking in a sharp breath. From somewhere within me, I find the strength to laugh. I'm not alone anymore.

"Close your eyes again," Katniss say to me in normal tones. I follow her direction. She doesn't say anything for a minute. Then I feel her get down on her knees beside me, her cool fingers wiping some of the grime off my cheek.

"I guess all those hours decorating cakes paid off," she says a little breathily, like she's as surprised as I am that she found me. Funny thing, I didn't even think for a moment that she was a threat.

I let my guard completely down. "Yes, frosting. The final defense of the dying," Old Peeta says.

"You're not going to die," Katniss tells me.

New Peeta throws it into reverse, replacing the defenses. "Says who?"

"Says me. We're on the same team now, you know."

"So I heard," Haymitch makes me say, battling for his say. "Nice of you to find what's left of me." I feel something on my lips like a kiss, and cool water slides down my throat.

"I heard Cato cut you," Katniss says.

"Left leg. Up high." I can't push Haymitch out of my mind. His words are mine.

"Let's get you in the stream," Katniss proposes, "wash you off and see what kind of wounds you've got."

"Lean down a minute first," says Peeta/Haymitch. "Need to tell you something." I don't know what he's doing, but he does have better survival skills than I do. I just hope whatever we're about to say isn't too humiliating.

Katniss puts her ear to my lips. "Remember, we're madly in love. So it's alright to kiss me anytime you feel like it."

She pulls away, jolted as I am by the reminder to work the romance angle. "Thanks. I'll keep it in mind." She laughs and smiles, her hand in my hair.

* * *

><p><strong>That's it. The cave scene is next, I swear on my life. <strong>

**Continuing from the top: I am really grateful for everyone whose reviewed:) I got 150 today. That's really great. And because it is, I'll say it again: That's really great. Yup. Anyway, I want A TON of reviews for this chapter. Just kidding. Well, not just kidding, but you know, if you read, just review, pretty please, because it will make both of us happy. **

**So I'm REALLY excited for what I've written of Catching Fire from Peeta's POV. So excited, in fact, that I may put a preview chapter up :D I just can't keep it hidden for any longer, ya know? I've had it on my computer for like 3 months. If someone, anyone says that they want to see it, I will put it up. And if people like it, I will put another chapter up. But I am like super-mega-uber excited about that.**

**Thanks for reading and review my loves!**

**-seastar**


	28. Chapter 27

**A/N: OMG CAVE SCENE! Legit. Like legit, y'all. I am like FREAKIN excited.  
>Anyway, I'll update you on the Catching Fire movie situation: I can't go downtown (which is where they are filming), because I am going... Well, I am going somewere else. I'll never meet Jennifer Lawrence or Josh Hutcherson! D,: Life ain't fair.<br>Anyways, I hope you guys really like this chapter, because I do :) It was like the funnest thing ever to write. So read it now - but before that, read the disclaimer before you sue me.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Hunger Games because Suzanne Collins does, and she's awesome  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Katniss grabs me by the shoulders. I wince. My muscles are sore, stiff, especially the ones in my upper leg. I couldn't move them even if I wanted to; it's like they're locked and the key was tossed away, or lost in the mud that is enveloping me.<p>

"You have to…" Katniss starts in a murmur, but I think she realizes how helpless I am right now. She has to claw the dirt from my chest just to make a cavity large enough to lift me out. What I wouldn't give to have the situation reversed. Not that I want Katniss hurt – it's just that I much better equipped for what she is doing right now. But she's made it this far, and I'm sure she's accomplished things much more difficult than pulling her almost-dead friend out of the muck. So trust her.

But the question of trust leaves my mind as soon as my lower body starts getting closer to the water. I bite my tongue so hard that I taste blood with the more metallic taste of pain in my mouth. I can't contain the sounds that bubble up in the back of my throat when parts of my body that don't want to move are moved. And that's almost every part. Lying in the dirt like the dead for who-knows-how-long will do that a person, apparently.

After a few moment's pause, Katniss tells me that she's going to roll me into the stream. "It's shallow here, okay?"

"Excellent," I manage.

"On the count of three, okay? One. Two…" I'm about to tell her I'd rather die than go through with this. "Three!"

I make a noise close to what one would expect to emanate from a suffocating feline. Katniss strains under my deadweight. We both grunt when she stops moving me. My eyes and cheeks are wet, and I feel hot and sweaty and, for the first time strangely, dirty. My toes are barely grazing the water.

"Okay, change of plans," says Katniss. She seems to be saying "okay" a lot, though it's rather obvious that I am anything but. "I'm not going to put you all the way in."

"No more rolling?" It's more of a plea than a question.

"That's all done. Let's get you cleaned up. Keep an eye on those woods for me, okay?" There it is again. Nothing is going to convince me that I'm alright, even a little. It would have been better if Katniss hadn't found me; I'll only be a hindrance to her.

I don't say anything, though. The Capitol obviously meant to play on the sympathies of the viewers with this ploy. The assumption of a relationship, true or false, between two tributes – well, the popularity probably wasn't thought of until Katniss and me. Since we separated, the Gamemakers were expected to rekindle the relationship, somehow. And that they've done.

I haven't been bathed by someone else – well, since I was in the early stages of my infancy. The stream is nothing like my tiny bathtub at home. For one, the water's not warm at all – the tub was right behind the ovens downstairs, so fortunately we always had hot water. But I don't mind the chill. I can practically feel the liquid from the bottles that Katniss is emptying on my skin evaporating on contact.

She doesn't say anything while she works the dirt off me. It takes a long while, but I just watch, my eyelids drooping, the lashes brushing my cheeks, but the pain prevents me from sleeping. I watch the sun play on her hair, closing my eyes, seeing the light at a different angle each time I open them, due to the sinking sun.

I have to admit, Katniss looks pretty rough around the edges; there's blood on her clothes, caked in nails, and though her hair is free of twigs and such, it has a slightly burned scent, like Portia's did one day when her barely-there curls went mysteriously flat. I can't even begin to imagine what I look like. I think of the tributes I've seen on TV. By the end of the first week, they start looking pretty ragged; by the end of the second, their eyes start taking on a slightly deranged look; and by the end of the third, if anyone makes it that far, they've begun to look like feral animals. I'd say I'm somewhere in the feral animal stage.

I want Katniss to tell me what I've missed, who died. Who she made allies with, if anyone. I want to know how her pain and struggles compare to mine. Now that I'm here with someone, someone who can comprehend my words and return them, all I want to do is talk. And yet, I can't bring myself to break the silence.

Because I'm craving for something real. I'd rather have nothing at all than something insincere. And right here, right now, with Katniss taking care of me, it seems real –and I can't bear to let that go.

I've clearly accumulated a whole swamp's worth of mud, because what surrounds me now could be the perfect breeding ground for alligators and mosquito's. I can't think of any other swamp-dwelling creatures, but before I have to, Katniss moves me over to a rock that I rest my back on. Then she cuts my clothes off and gauges out my tracker jacker stings before she puts some leaves that make the throbbing that I've now grown accustomed to go away.

She salvages what clothes she can. When she takes off my shirt, her hands linger on my chest, and I look at her, wondering what this means. But she dives into her pack and pull out a first aid kit, bringing out some pills.

I can still feel the cool imprint of her hands as she says, "Swallow these." I do. "You must be hungry."

"Not really," I saw, wrinkling my nose. "It's funny, I haven't been hungry for days."

"You must be," says Katniss, going for the pack again. She takes out some kind of animal leg. It smells like grease and it makes my stomach churn.

Katniss look truly worried now. "Peeta," she says gently, "we need to get some food in you."

"It'll just come right back up," I point out, judging by the pain in my stomach.

Katniss puts the pack under my nose. "You must want _something,_" she says.

The only thing that doesn't smell rancid to me is some old-looking apples. I close my stiff-feeling fingers around a few and pop them into my mouth. After a few minutes, my stomach starts feeling the ill-effects, but Katniss is right when she says that I'm starving myself.

Even digesting is making me tired. "Thanks. I feel much better now, really," I lie. "Can I sleep now, Katniss?"

"Soon," she tells me. "I need to look at your leg first.

Fear trills through me. "You can see it fine from here," I want to say. But she starts taking my boots off, then my filthy, dirty sock and pants. I don't want to look at the wound, so I watch my caretakers face, careful not to look in her eyes, lest I see the reflection of what she does.

And evidently, what she sees is not good. I can feel the blood flowing freely, unstaunched by anything, stinging acutely in the open air. Katniss's face takes on a petrified look.

"Pretty awful, huh?"

Her features slacken. "So, so" she says, and shrugs. "First thing is to clean it well."

But she doesn't clean it. Not the wound, anyway. She cleans _me_, good and well, and puts a sheet of plastic on the rock so the water will slide back into the river. Every time she looks at my leg, Katniss looks a little green.

She puts something on the sting on my knee, and I sneak a look at the gash.

It's disgusting. There's a weird disconnect between my leg and the rest of my body in that moment. Like I can't believe that's a part of _me, my body_, looking like that. It's the kind of thing that always happens to someone else. The pus, the blood, the swelling – it's destroying my leg. Cato destroyed my leg, and I know that I will never get it back. It's the first part of me to go, or maybe it's the second – I think my mind left a few days ago.

"We'll just give it some air," Katniss says after a while.

"And you'll patch it up?" I suggest half-hopefully.

"That's right," she says, nodding a little bit too hard. "In the mean time, eat these." She hands me some more dried fruit – this time pears.

I eat them, watching her thoughtfully. The star-crossed lovers act is still playing out. I'm just waiting for the intermission. The moment we get alone – but then I realize: We won't be alone. Not in the arena, not will all the cameras. Now that we're together, they will be watching 24/7. Maybe it will just go on and on, and we won't have to act anymore. But how satisfying would that really be? No one should be forced to love or care for someone. Don't things like that work of their volition?

Katniss goes down the bank where I can't see her, but she pastes my wet clothes on a hot rock when she comes back with a determined look on her face. She rifles through the first aid kit and come up empty handed.

"We're going to have to experiment a little," she says, cracking her knuckles in a way that makes me slightly nervous. She grabs some leaves from a patch of weedy-looking plants, chews them up, and spits them back out into her hand. I've seen things more gross than that today, but I feel her saliva on my leg when she puts them on the wound. I feel something dripping down my thigh. I need to distract myself, because I can't afford to lose the contents of my stomach. I weigh the remaining pears in my hand and think of how little is in there now.

"Katniss?" She looks at me. "How about that kiss?" I ask silently. What I'm really saying is, _I haven't forgotten about the romance ruse; have you? _She barks out a laugh.

"Something wrong?" I ask, though I predicted this reaction.

"I… I'm no good at this," Katniss admits. "I'm not my mother, I've no idea what I'm doing, and I hate pus."

_But I trust you_, I think. And I'm not going to trust many more people during my lifetime.

Katniss spits the leaves on my leg again. "How do you hunt?" I ask. She seems so dainty, even about regurgitating a strange plant on a dying person's leg.

"Trust me, killing things is a lot easier than this." She pauses for a moment, wiping her mouths and brushing some stray strands of hair behind her ear. "Although for all I know, I'm killing you."

"Can you speed it up a little?" I ask.

"No," she says. "Shut up and eat your pears."

I oblige, and when the pears are gone and Katniss stops to survey her work, I ask, "What's next, Dr. Everdeen?"

"Oh, maybe I'll put some burn ointment on it. It helps with infection anyway," Katniss contemplates. "And I'll wrap it up?"

I nod. Good. I don't want to look at that thing anymore. It isn't mine, not my leg anymore.

Katniss wraps my leg like a real professional. I don't feel her hands on the inside of my thigh – the upper portion of the limb feels strangely numb. The bandage is stark white, even against my pale skin. It's the dirt that really sets it off, though.

An empty pack flies into my lap. "Here, cover yourself with this and I'll wash your shorts." So Katniss noticed as well.

I roll my eyes. "I don't care if you see me," I tell her. This is a doctor and patient scenario, nothing more. Though I'm not sure how the people of Panem will take my words. Oh, well; I'll let it remain an enigmatic statement.

"You're just like the rest of my family," Katniss say, putting her hands on her hips. "I care, alright?"

I snort a little, take the shorts off, and fling them past Katniss into the river. I was aiming for the back of her head; I'm not sure how she'd take it if I'd actually made my target, though.

"You know," I observe, "you're kind of squeamish for such a lethal person. I wish I'd let you give Haymitch a shower now after all."I shudder at that memory.

"What's he sent you so far?" Katniss asks, kneeling on the bank, her hands in the water.

"Not a thing," I say somewhat bitterly, though I haven't really been in many situations of need. Not desperate ones, anyway. Then I have a thought. "Why, did you get something?"

"Burn medicine," Katniss says. She stops washing. "Oh, and some bread," she finishes guiltily.

"I always knew you were his favorite," I say, trying for a light tone, but really I am taking a little dig at Haymitch. Maybe he'll feel some guilt when he sees this air.

"Please, he can't even stand to be in the same room as me," Katniss protests, straightening up.

"Because you're just alike." It's true; Haymitch and Katniss are both sullen and stony survivors. Underneath it all, though, they both have good hearts. At least Katniss does. You can never be sure with Haymitch.

No more words are exchanged. Katniss comes and sits by me, her eyes boring into my face, watching intently for my feelings. My eyes slowly shut and I sink into a deep, comfortable sleep.

It doesn't last long, though. I'm woken after what seems like an unbearably short time.

"Peeta." I start. Who…?

"Peeta, we've got to go now."

"Go?" Where from? "Go where?"

"Away from here. Downstream, maybe. Somewhere we can hide you until you're stronger," says Katniss. Katniss. I remember now. My leg feels… better. Yes, I remember.

I put my dry clothes back on with Katniss's help. They feel strangely clean. A foreign feeling.

Katniss pulls me up and tries to have me walk. I can't. This stump of a leg can't support me. It's useless.

"Come on," Katniss prompts. "You can do this."

I can't, though. I stumble alone blindly. I can't tell where I'm putting my feet because my vision is darkening and my head and leg are throbbing.

When my sight finally clears, I'm lying on a floor of cold stone. Shivers run through my body. I'm hurting so badly. I feel water slide down my throat and I see Katniss holding some dried fruit up to my lips. I shake my head. She sighs and stands up.

I watch her as she puts up a curtain of vines to hide the entrance of the cave that I'm guessing we're now in. It blocks out a little bit of the light that is streaming in and making my eyes hurt. Oh well. It's better than being in the dark.

I think about my family. They never made me feel alive – well, my father did, sometimes. My mother made me feel alive with anger once in a while. My brothers… they were just there. Fixtures in my life, all of them. Fixtures that I'd taken for granted until the second they were taken away. The only thing that gave my meaningless life and kind of substance. I never even told them. I never told them that it wasn't the girls that I brought home, or the hours spent away that made me happy, or Peeta. It was them.

More light spills onto my face when the curtain is ripped down by a frustrated girl. I'm glad for the bright warmth, now. It was most certainly dark and cold where I was going, lonely. And I realize – I have been dead. I was dead from the moment I left the Careers, or they left me, whichever way you want to view it, and I came back to life the moment I was found by Katniss. Because death to me is loneliness. Maybe I was never _really_ alive until that minute when someone found me, laying in the dirt.

"Katniss." My voice is feeble. I feel I hand on forehead, in my hair. Cool and comforting. "Thanks for finding me."

"You would have found me if you could," she tells me, running her hand across my sweat-slicked forehead.

"Yes." Of course I would have. I've cared more about her than logically possible ever since the bread – before that even. I can't even pinpoint when I became interested in Katniss's well-being, or that of the people in the Seam.

My mind drifts back to my family. "Look, if I don't make it back –"

"Don't talk like that," Katniss commands quietly. "I didn't drain all that pus for noting."

"I know," I say, trying to continue, "but just in case I don't –"

"No, Peeta." I feel fingers on my dry lips. "I don't even want to discuss it."

She at least has to know how I feel about her, before I go. It doesn't seem personal enough to say good-bye to my family on television. My time with them has passed. "But I –"

I feel something else on my lips. Not a finger, but something I haven't felt in a long time. A pressure. From Katniss's lips.

I never even thought about my last real kiss. Truthfully, I don't even remember the first one, they all blur together in my mind, the mouths of countless girls that I tried to fill the void in my life with. Their lips, whether moving in speech or on mine, sometimes felt like enough. But never as much as this.

That, by comparison, was nothing. This is what I have been searching for. Real care, though given the circumstances, I'm not sure what else could be expected. I feel safe with Katniss here. Safe and sound, for once in my life, and maybe by this kiss, she means to say that she feels safe with me.

"You're not going to die. I forbid it," Katniss says, releasing me, looking into my eyes. "Alright?"

"Alright," I whisper, because I think that I believe her.

* * *

><p><strong>I just now realized I am kind of making Peeta sound like a schizophrenic… oops :3 Suzanne Collins would probably disapprove. Anyway, he's not developing psycho-mania whatever stuff. Think of it more like an ongoing metaphor. Anyway, please review, I really want to know what you guys think!<strong>

**And thanks to Serpent91 (even though that it probably not your username) for your kind, kind reviews.  
>And I've been foretting, but thanks a thousand to Sanctuaria for betaing this chapter and many others, and not saying anything when I forgot to give my thanks in the author's note x)<strong>

**Review, and thanks for reading!  
>-seastar<strong>


	29. Chapter 28

**A/N: GAH. I'm really sorry I haven't updated in like 1 million years D: I have been so busy! Like, I didn't even know the meaning of busy until now. And I don't have a lot of time at the moment, so, yeah, this is gonna have to be short: Read, review, repeat, something like that.  
><strong>

**Edits(: Hey, everyone! So, as you can see above, I haven't really had a lot of time lately, but I do now! Well, I am actually working a school project, but you know, multi-tasking, right? That's how I roll. I think I just broke my ankle x( Sorry, I'm saying really random stuff right now. Anyway, more to the point: I posted what I had of Burning Bliss, and the reaction was pretty underwhelming. Probably no one read it all because it was so freaking long :) But if you read it, tell me what you think! PLEASE? What does it take to get people to talk to me around here? Seriously, I have a whole crap load of Halloween candy that I'm totally willing to sacrifice for some reviews, y'all. PLEASE. I WILL GIVE YOU CANDY. Just review, PLEASE? Pretty please?**

**Anyway, because I remembered this time ~ DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Hunger Games, and I can't think of anything witty to add to that. **

* * *

><p>Katniss lingers by me for a few moments before getting up and tromping to the entrance of the cave.<p>

My body aches; being safe, I think, should feel significantly better than this. Physically, at least. Emotionally, I feel nice, a bit tingly inside. Like someone cares, for once. Mentally, I'm exhausted.

I've been trying to crane my neck toward the mouth of the cave to see Katniss, but I give up eventually and lull into sleep.

"Peeta!" I hear someone say. I don't open my eyes. I feel lips on mine and my lids fling open reflexively. Katniss brandishes something in my face. I smile at her smile. She seems happy about something, and her expression has finally changed from the helpless, hopeless look that it's had since she started draining the pus from my leg. For the second time since we left District 12, I notice how pretty she is. Even with her face streaked in dirt, scratches, and remnants of blood, her eyes shine, grey like the sky that silhouettes her.

And suddenly I'm not sure how I feel about her. Of course, I "revealed" my love for her on national television – if that wasn't proof of how I felt about her…

The problem is that she subsequently shoved me into an urn. If that isn't proof about how she felt about me, then I don't have a hope of knowing what is.

Before I can delve deeper into my thoughts, Katniss leans down and gives me another kiss. "Peeta, look what Haymitch has sent you!" She says a little over enthusiastically. She's holding a silver pot with a matching parachute attached. Some liquid is sloshing around in her unsteady hands.

_About time_, I think sourly. It probably isn't even for me. Katniss probably just got down on her knees, bowed her head, and waited. Either that, or she just willed it into existence. That's the one privilege of being in the arena: whatever you are in need of is capable of falling out of the sky. If you're lucky; I guess Katniss is.

But it doesn't matter - I'm not going to eat the broth anyway. That's what my stomach tells me. My mouth stays clamped shut as Katniss holds the spoon out to me like I'm her fussy child. Warm liquid rains down on me, my newly cleaned clothes, my face.

"Just a bite," Katniss tells me. She lifts the spoon to her own lips, tasting the broth. She narrows her eyes, like she expected it to taste better. I myself have forgotten the taste of the watered down chicken-bone stock that my father used to make whenever one of his family members was sick

"You can't bite soup," I mumble. It's the first time I've moved my lips in about half an hour.

Katniss rolls her eyes. "Fine. A sip."

I shake my head.

She puts the bowl down and crosses her arms. Just when I think I've won this battle – I've still got two others raging in my body and mind to deal with – she swoops down and plants a kiss on my lips. While I'm still in semi-shock, she shoves the spoon into my mouth. I decide it's probably easier to just swallow, rather than spitting it out letting it dribble down my chin.

The next time she tries that, though, I do sit up a minute, just to spew it out and make my point. New Peeta, Old Peeta, and Haymitch are all still swirling around in my head and I don't think I'll feel better until I can either get rid of them all, or merge them into one: Me.

Once the broth is gone, Katniss stops bugging me. In fact, she stops talking all together. She's probably got other things on her mind. I can't blame her, of course. It's a lot to wrap your head around; first the rule change, which is pretty mind-boggling in itself, seeing as how nothing like this has ever happened in the Games before; then the fact that she actually found me, and I'm still alive; and finally, the revival of the Star-Crossed Lover Romance. I'm sure the audience is captivated

It's pretty obvious what brought about the rule change – to me, anyway. I can't help but wonder what the folks at home think. I'm pretty sure things will be over with May when if I come back. The thought makes me smile a little bit for some reason.

I feel fairly culpable for the affect that this arrangement is having on Katniss safety. The danger level for me has decreased to about a five and half, but for her, it's increased to a ten. I don't know why she came looking for me. Maybe she felt obligated; maybe she actually cares. Regardless, I'm glad she did.

Katniss unrolls the sleeping bag and unceremoniously stuffs me in side. My stomach is roiling from the broth, and I've broken out in a cold sweat, waves of heat and cold rolling over my body simultaneously. I'm still thinking about home when I fall into a fitful sleep.

I don't dream – I don't think I do. I see fleeting imprints in my mind of events that I'm not completely sure took place. They are tinged in red. I feel someone next to me, cool, comforting. I'm not alone, as I have been the whole time in the arena.

She's here. I get the fluttery feeling again, like I've swallowed a moth and it's battering away at the inside of my chest. I feel like I have everything I need now.

When I fully wake, I try to sit up slowly. My shoulders feel hunched and my neck is full of kinks, which I try to work out. I don't feel nearly as horrible as I did last night. My body temperature seems to have balanced itself out, and my joints - except for the one in my infected leg - are loosening up.

It takes me a minute or two to figure out what's wrong. Katniss is gone, yet again. I wish she'd wake me up and tell me where and when she's going, or give me some sort of notification. How am I supposed to know it something's wrong? In the event of something going amiss, where would that leave me?

I hear a shriek. My heart seizes up. Alright, Peeta. Bad leg or not, you are going out there.

I push myself up on one leg. My hands haven't yet left the floor when Katniss enters the cave.

I collapse back on the sleeping bag. "I woke up and you were gone," I say a little accusatorially. "I was worried about you."

"You were worried about me?" As a matter of fact, yes, my dear, invincible Katniss. "Have you taken a look at yourself lately?"

"I thought Cato and Clove might have found you. They like to hunt at night," I warn.

"Clove?" Katniss inquires. "Which one is that?"

"Th girl from District Two," I tell her. "I'm assuming she's still alive?"

"Yes, there's just them and us and Thresh and Foxface."

{Who the heck is Foxface?} I think.

"That's what I named the girl from Five," Katniss explains, as if reading my mind. "How do you feel?"

The question catches me off guard a little bit; I though we were going to start talking strategy. I'm not used to anybody saying anything but "Suck it up, Peeta," or "You'll be fine," when it comes to my health.

I smile and relax a little bit. "Better than yesterday." My voice isn't nearly as raspy as before. "This is an enormous improvement over the mud. Clean clothes and medicine and a sleeping bag... and you." I don't know where the last part comes from - finally, Haymitch and New Peeta decide to make themselves useful. And the moment tugs on Old Peeta's heartstrings as well. So the three of me can exist in harmony.

Katniss puts her hand gently on my cheek. I kiss it, for effect. I'm sure the audience is oohing and awwing.

"No more kisses for you until you've eaten." Katniss says. She arranges me so that she can getters me some sweet mushy red stuff that reminds me of the filling we used to put in some pastries. We sold the leftovers to people with babies.

I'm full after a few bites. My stomach seems to have shrunk to the size of a baby's. I blame the food. Katniss tries to feed me some meat off the bones of a bird, but I don't think I'll be able to stomach that.

Anyway, my time for being coddled is over. "You didn't sleep," I point out to Katniss. Her eyelids are starting to droop ever so slightly.

"I'm alright," she lies.

I try to look stern. "Sleep," I order, "now. I'll wake you if anything happens." She doesn't look very confident of my abilities. "Katniss, you can't stay up forever."

She sighs. "Alright. But just for a few hours. Then you wake me."

I nod and watch as she brings the sleeping bag out again, unrolls it and lays on top, sprawling out beside me.

"Go to sleep," I coo. She obeys.

I watch as the vines at the cave entrance, anything moving beyond catches my attention. There are mostly birds, flittering about, occasionally flying off with glittery, scaly fish from the stream, which gurgles nearby. Nothing exciting happens, which I should be glad of, but as the time begins to while away, I start thinking. A dangerous pastime in the arena, I've discovered.

I think about home, my family, my friends, my life up to this point - all before I notice the rhythmic motion of my hand in Katniss's hair. I didn't even realize what I was doing until now.

I suppose because she did the same to me, I unconsciously decided to return the gesture. Before all this, I know Katniss would never have accepted such a casual touch. I know I never would have given it. But now...

{You love her}, a voice from somewhere inside me whispers. The thought rattles me, and I push it away, like one might shove someone to the opposite side of door and slam it. It wasn't Haymitch, New Peeta, or even Old Peeta, who uttered those words. I don't think I'll be able to survive the insanity of having another voice in my head.

{Love is insanity}. I remember hearing that somewhere before. I wonder if it is. I wonder if it's supposed to make your heartbeat as fast as mine is beating right now. I wonder if it's supposed to make your breath hitch every time you think about what losing them would be like.

I can't tell, and as far as I know, there is no love manual. At least, I've never seen a title like that on the small bookshelf behind the counter at the store.

My hand moves from Katniss's hand and my thumbs start twiddling. I feel fidgety and hot again.

I can't move, though, so instead I watch Katniss. Her steady breathing, the rise and fall of her chest, and the occasional fluttering over her eyelashes are captivating. Her features, usually hard, have soften. The mud on her face that previously looked like evidence of battle could be leftover from the mudpies that she constructed earlier. She looks like a child.

Katniss moves a little, snuggling against me. Another thought appears, unbidden, in my head. {Maybe she loves you back}. I smile.

Katniss stirs against my leg about an hour later. The sun has passed its noon apex and it starting to disappear from my limited field of vision.

"Peeta." Katniss's sleep-heavy words startle me a little. "You were supposed to wake me after a couple of hours," she says.

"For what?" I ask. "Nothing's going on here. Besides, I like watching you sleep. You don't scowl. Improves your look a lot." That other voice has put me in a relatively good mood.

She, of course, scowls. I chuckle.

Then a frown appears on Katniss's face. "Are you thirsty?"

"A little," I admit. "I drank some, though, while you were sleeping." A sip or two.

She puts her hand on my cheek and the frown deepens. "I want you to take some fever pills, okay?"

I shrug and down them. I'm thirstier that I thought, because I drink every drop of the water I'm given.

After that, Katniss unwraps my leg. I'm not afraid to look this time, and I get a healthy dose of horror as a result. It's swollen unbelievably big - and not like a tracker jacker sting. At least that was limited to a certain arena. If left untended, the swelling could potential spread all the way up my body. Assuming I lived that long.

What's particularly concerning, to both me and Katniss, are the red streaks that are my veins. Blood poising. Classic symptom, at least.

"Well," says Katniss nervously, "there's more swelling, but the pus is gone."

"I know what blood poisoning is, Katniss." My temporary levity has vanished. "Even if my mother isn't a healer."

"You'll just have to outlast the others, Peeta," suggests Katniss weakly. "They'll cure it back at the Capitol when we win."

"Yeah, that's a good plan." Better than nothing, I guess.

"You have to eat. Keep your strength up. I'm going to make you soup."

"Don't light a fire," I instruct, "it's not worth it." Especially not with me declining so quickly.

"We'll see," Katniss says, not promising anything. She leave the cave with the pot and I wait.

* * *

><p><strong>It's short I know, but oh well. SUCK IT UP! Jk. I'm sorry. Anyway, thanks to Sanctuaria for betaing. REVIEW, PLEASE! I swear the next one will be up soon. Please, I am begging you, just type something in that little box and press send. PLEASE!<strong>

**Thanks!  
>-seastar97<strong>


	30. Chapter 29

**A/N: Hello, my lovely readers! Happy Wednesday. Anyway, it took me like a week instead of a month to do this one, so you better be grateful! Jk. But really, I would really love some reviews right about now. Like, a hundred would be really nice. Just sayin'. Please, I know you have the good in your hearts! Do it for your mom! Do it for your sister! Just review. Or continue ignoring my desperate pleas. My traffic stats are very telling. Just kidding. Not making any threats. Before I forget:**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Hunger Games. **

**And thanks to Serpent91 and percabethandpuckabrinaforevs for reviewing like a lot!  
>Now read!<strong>

* * *

><p>I throw up the berries almost as soon as Katniss leaves the cave. They all come up in one gigantic heave. Luckily I grabbed something to spill my guts into beforehand. It's silver with strings attached - a parachute? I've never seen one in person, thanks to Haymitch.<br>I don't want Katniss to know how bad I'm feeling, so throw the wrapped up parachute and its contents into the furthermost corner of the cave. I figure if the Careers find it after they're gone, we'll either be dead or far, far away - preferably back in 12. In which case, they'll be dead. So chances are, leaving it there won't put us in any danger at all.

I've been doing a lot o rationalizing like this lately, in order to keep myself sane. _If I die, at least Katniss will still get to be the victor. If the Careers find us, worst case scenario, we'll both die, but at least we'll be together... Somewhere. Right? By protecting me, Katniss is…_

_ Putting herself in danger. _

That's the only thing I haven't been able to justify. If Katniss was really interested in doing what was best for her, she would have left me a long time ago. She _should_ have left me a long time ago.

But I don't want her to. I want to be with her – she's the closest thing I have to home. The best I can do is make myself as little of a burden as possible.

My stomach is roiling worse than the day of the reaping, so I stretch out on the sleeping bag on my stomach, hoping to ease the pain. It doesn't work, so I curl up in fetal position, trying not to disturb my bad leg, while tears seep out of my eyes. I taste bile at the back of my throat. I'm sick as a dog.

The feeling does pass though, after who knows how long, and I stretch back out on the bag. Katniss comes back in holding some strips of cloth. She puts the on my forehead. It feels good for about ten seconds, then their temperature equalizes with that of my body.

Katniss sighs, a worried line creasing her forehead. "Do you want anything?" she asks me.

I shake my head. "No. Thank you." There's no distraction from the symptoms of whatever I've contracted. "Wait, yes. Tell me a story," I say when the idea comes into my head.

"A story?" Katniss's hand goes to the back of her head. "What about?"

"Something happy. Tell me about the happiest day you can remember." Because I can't remember any happy days at the moment.

Katniss sighs again. Thinking. I should probably apologize for putting her on the spot like this. Something tells me she hasn't had as many fine and dandy days.

"Did I ever tell you the story about how I got Prim's goat?" she asks, knowing she hasn't. I'll play along.

I shake my head she starts.

"Well, once upon a time, there was a girl named Katniss. It was her sister's birthday, and she wanted to buy something very special for a very special girl." She pauses for a second, and then rolls her eyes, dropping the fairytale phrasing. "So I Gale and I went to the market with a silver locket of my mother's to see what we could get for it. I was thinking a hair ribbon, or something girly like that. My sister likes those kinds of things."

"You two don't sound that much alike," I note.

"We aren't. Now," Katniss continues, "Once we got the money, I decided I wanted to buy dress materials. But while we were looking, I saw that Goat Man. Have you ever seen him before, Peeta?"

I shake my head. "Can't say I have." My father usually goes to the market to buy whatever food we don't make at the bakery.

"Well, he's an old man… I think he used to work in the mines. Anyway, he's got a herd of goats, and he lives off the milk that they give him. So, Gale and I went over to where the Goat Man was, and I saw her. There was a goat with a bite out of her shoulder – her flesh was torn pretty well, infected – and I said to Gale, "Gale. I want that goat for Prim." And he said, "She's hurt pretty bad, Katniss."" I smile a little at Katniss's half-impersonation of Gale's voice. ""We'd better take a closer look." After that, we bought a cup of goat milk, and looked at the goat. The Goat Man told us to leave her alone, the butcher was coming to buy her soon. I asked "What's the butcher paying for her?" The Goat Man didn't tell me, but the butcher came. She said she didn't want the goat. The Goat Man was furious. "You said we had a deal!" he said. The butcher said, "We had a deal for an animal with a few teeth marks, not a whole shoulder missing." And as she walked off, she winked at me. The goat man agreed that we could have her, after we haggled on a price. Gale helped me take her home after we bought a pink ribbon to tie on her neck.

"You should have seen the look on Prim's face when we showed it to her. She was so excited she started crying and laughing all at once. My mother wasn't completely sure, but she allowed us to keep it. They made up remedies, medicines, and bandages for its shoulder and the infection there."

"They sound like you," I say, thinking of my leg.

"Oh, no, Peeta. They work magic. That thing couldn't have died if it tried," say Katniss, admiration in her voice. Then she looks away from me, realizing what she's just implied.

"Don't worry," I assure her, "I'm not trying. Finish the story."

"Well, that's it. Only I remember that night, Prim insisted on sleeping with Lady – that's what she named the thing – on a blanket next to the fire. And just before they drifted off, the goat licked her cheek, like it was giving her a good night kiss or something. It was already mad about her."

I smile. I can easily see why anyone – or anything – would be mad about Katniss's little sister. She's the sweetest looking thing ever. I imagine the scene: a house in the Seam – difficult, because I've seen few; a fire; a little blonde girl and a goat, sleeping by the hearth. That would make a nice painting.

"Was it still wearing the ribbon?" I ask.

"I think so," Katniss replies. "Why?"

"I'm just trying to get a picture," I say, yawning. "I can see why that day made you so happy." My family would never go farther than a cake on a birthday, and only because they're right at hand.

"Well, I knew that goat would be a little gold mine."

I roll my eyes, grinning. "Yes, of course I was referring to that, not the lasting joy you gave the sister you love so much you took her place in the reaping."

"The goat _has _paid for itself. Several times over," Katniss says, defending herself.

"Well, it wouldn't dare do anything else after you saved its life," I say sarcastically. "I intend to do the same thing." I'm serious about that part though. If we make it through this, I'll repay her in some way. Somehow, someday. [Saving her in the in the arena next time!] My eyelids droop.

"Really? What did you cost me again?" she puts her hand on my forehead. It feels like ice.

_What didn't I cost her? _"A lot of trouble. Don't worry. You'll get it all back."

"You're not making sense." She shakes her head. "You're a little cooler, though."

A trumpet riff rings out across the arena for all to hear. I don't even need to listen to the words – I know what to expect. Unless there's been another rule change, the Gamemakers have put together a feast.

"Now hold on. Some of you may already be declining my invitation. But this is no ordinary feast. Each of you needs something desperately." Claudius Templesmith's voice booms out. "Each of you will find that something in a backpack, marked with your district number, at the Cornucopia at dawn. Think hard about refusing to show up. For some of you, this will be your last chance."

This _is _my last chance. To keep Katniss safe. If she goes, Lord only knows if she'll come back.

I can almost see the gears turning in Katniss's head. I grab her shoulder. She jumps under my hand. "No," I say firmly. "You're not risking your life for me." _Again. _

"Who said I was?" she asks too innocently. Like anyone had to.

"So you're not going." It's more of command than a question.

"Of course, I'm not going. Give me some credit. Do you think I'm running straight into some free-for-all against Cato and Clove and Thresh?" she scoffs. "Don't be stupid. I'll let them fight it out; we'll see who's in the sky tomorrow night and work out a plan from there."

I shake my head. The fever speaks a little bit more than I do. "You're such a bad liar, Katniss. I don't know how you've survived this long." I try to imitate her voice. I sound more like her interpretation of Gale Hawthorne. _"I knew that goat_ _would be a little gold mine. You're a little cooler though. Of_ _course, I'm not going."_

Katniss looks scandalized. "Never gamble at cards. You'll lose your last coin," I finish.

"All right, I am going," she says angrily. "And you can't stop me!"

"I can follow," I say defiantly. At least partway. I may not make it to the Cornucopia, but if I'm yelling your name, I bet someone can find me. And then I'll be dead for sure."

"You won't get a hundred yards from here on that leg." So far, she isn't taking me seriously.

"Then I'll drag myself." This is for her own good. "You go, I go too." Nonnegotiable.

Katniss scowls at me for a minute. "Well, what I am supposed to do?" she demands, "sit here and watch you die?"

"I won't die." Or I'll fight it for as long as I can. She must know there's no guarantee. "I promise. If _you_ promise not to go."

The Gamemakers have obviously thought this through already. They don't want to make it easy for both of us to survive. They want to make the chances as slim as possible.

"Then you have to do what I say," she snaps. "Drink your water, wake me when I tell you, and eat every bite of the soup no matter how disgusting it is!"

"Agreed," I say, deciding not to push my luck. "Is it ready?"

"Wait here." Katniss leaves the cave again.

I frown once she goes, suspicious. Could she be leaving right now? She gave up awfully easily. If she thinks I was kidding about dragging myself to the Cornucopia behind her, she's in for it.

But she comes back, the pot that she took out earlier in her hands. She sets it in front of me. It's a little too hot for my taste, and the fever's. It's starting to overcome me, and I don't have the energy to fight it.

"This is the best soup – ever," I say with my mouth full, the stuff scraping my dry throat, like I'm swallowing sandpaper. "It's so good, I could…" I can't think of anything. "I could eat it! All my life."

The pot's empty. I'm thinking I could eat the metal, but Katniss take it back outside. When she comes back in, she holding something. It shines like a star. My eye sight is clouding up and everything look shimmery and silver.

"I've brought you a treat," she says. The rest of her words blur together. I catch "berries."

She puts a spoon to my lips. I bite. They taste sweet. Really sweet. I point this out.

"Yes, they're sugar berries," Katniss says. "My mother makes jam from them. Haven't you ever had them before?"

"No," I say, the fever impairing probably impairing my memory. "They familiar. They're called sugar berries?"

"Well," explains Katniss, "you can't get them in the market much, they only grow in the wild."

I think of the bakery and the berry tarts that we sometimes make. We sweeten them with syrup. "They're sweet as syrup," I hear myself say. Syrup. Cough syrup. Corn syrup. Maple syrup. Sleeping syrup.

_Sleeping syrup. _Suddenly, I remember the taste. "Syrup," I repeat. Katniss's hand descends on my mouth, holding my nose so I can't expel the berries. But I heaved them once – I bet I can do it again.

It's too late though. The berries – or the fever, maybe both – pull me under. The last thing I see before my eyes involuntarily shut is Katniss's hand.

I jolt awake, adrenaline inexplicably running through my veins. I look around. Other times, when I've woken up after being knocked out, I didn't remember a thing. But this time, I remember it all, down to the last second.

The one thing I don't remember is having a needle stuck in my arm. I yank it out, a little too hard apparently, because I misjudge my strength and my closed fist ends up striking the cave floor. It's almost like all my old might is back.

I sit up, which is surprisingly easy, and examine the needle. There's a clear syringe attached to it. Empty, of course, its contents now in my bloodstream. Katniss must have injected me, but with what? Where _is_ Katniss?

I try getting up to look for her. My leg isn't completely fixed up, yet, though, so I do a 360 scan of the cave. And there, lying in the corner, is Katniss, surrounded by a pool of blood.

* * *

><p><strong>Cliffie! Or not if you've read the book like I'm assuming most of you have... Anyway, keeping reading, I'm already well into the next chapter, so it won't be long. Thanks to everyone who reviews! And thanks to Sanctuaria for betaing! <strong>

**-seastar**


	31. Chapter 30

**A/N: Hola, my beautiful readers! I just wanted to tell you guys how grateful I am for all the reviews, they have far exceeded my expectations :D So, I am going to do some shoutouts. Also, I am going to start replying to reviews in every chapter. I usually answer questions in PMs, but I this is so much more fun. So without further ado:**

**Prismacolored pencils- Thank you!  
>Peeta'sPearl18- Thank you!<br>Percabethanpuckabrinaforevs- Lol I already replied to you and we had a good convo ;)  
>sarah- Thanks! I try my best. No one can stand up to Suzanne Collins, though, IMO :)<br>Serpent91- You're awesome, of course!  
>DrizzleMist- Haha thanks! Here's the continuation, and hopefully the next chapter won't be too long of a wait for you!<strong>

**Sorry if I skipped anybody. I have cool reviewers :P Anyway, you can read the chapter now :)**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Hunger Games**

* * *

><p>I panic. What happened? Is she alive? Who did this, and are they still here? How did she get here like this? A little part of me wonders how safe <em>I<em> am.

So, Katniss went to the feast, despite my objections, and _this_ is what came of it. I have to admit, I'm a little angry, too.

Worry, however, wins out over the rest of my feelings.

I pull myself over to where Katniss is. The blood is – or was, I think it's stopped now – from her head, where there's a gash. A long, thin, deliberate slash mark, right above her eyebrow. There's a cut on her lip, too, but I need to focus on what I can fix.

I take her pulse, and mine goes down significantly when I feel the blood pumping steadily through her veins. She's not dead.

I can't clean her up in a pool of blood, so take her as gently as possible in my arms, which I am again surprised my strength can allow, and take her over to the sleeping bag. I have to empty one of the water bottles to clean the cut. I'm glad Katniss filled them up before she left.

After that, I look for the bandages. There's a pack like mine sitting by the sleeping bag. It's filled with food, another parachute, and a medical first aid kit. Bandages. I need bandages. There's a roll and a few strips, but Katniss must of have used the rest on my leg.

I've never had to bandage anything more major than an oven-burn in my life, so I'm not sure how I do on her head, but I think it looks something like the arrangement on my thigh.

Now I have to clean up the blood. I can't waste the water, because I can't get more. Then I hear the pitter patter on the cave roof. _Rain_. I can put the empty pot outside and use that to clean up.

There's a steady stream flowing off one the rocks protruding off the mouth of the cave, lit by a sliver of moonlight that shows through the clouds, so stick the pot underneath the flow and go back to Katniss.  
>She hasn't woken up yet. I have to check her vitals about three times before I can convince myself that everything is normal. I'm not sure what the symptoms of blood loss are, but the only thing visibly wrong with Katniss is her pallor, which I'm sure makes her look positively ghoulish on camera. How unfortunate for the viewers. I can't have her catching cold, so I take off her rain-soaked boots and socks.<br>I wonder where those cameras are. I never really got to take a good look around the cave; I realize this when I start cleaning the blood off the floor. There are plenty of cracks and crevices perfect for cameras. I knock on a stalagmite. Hollow.  
>The puddle has diffused to one of the far corners. I need a mop. I don't suppose one of them will come falling from the sky with parachute attached.<br>There's another corner with a shallow hole, so I force the bloodied water over there as best I can. The air is still tinged with a metallic scent when I collapse next to Katniss on the sleep bag, hours of cleaning and care-taking later, and fall asleep.

That medicine must have worked wonders on my stomach during the night, because when I wake up, I go like a vulture towards the smell of the meat. Everything we have is in the pack – some crackers, fruit, and other things. I end up attacking a small bird – I think Katniss called it groosling once – and eating three of the four legs. That's when I realize, the guarantee of more food… Well, it's not a guarantee at all.

_If I'd been awake and able to eat, those legs would have already been gone. _There I go rationalizing again. I suppose it's true, but I tear myself away from the food and back toward Katniss.

The anthem starts playing a moment later, though, so I peek up into the night sky to take a look at the casualties of late.

Clove. She's the only one I see, at least. I feel a pang, remembering her voice, her face. Her bloodthirsty smile comes to mind as well, but that fades into the background somehow. She wasn't the worst of the Careers, that's for sure, though which it was, I'm not sure. I do not rejoice in her death.

I have to remind myself to turn my attention back to Katniss. She looks okay; a tiny spot of blood has managed to saturate all the way through the thick bandaging. I wonder if I should change it or not. I go for the latter, because who knows what kind of infection results from a lax fellow tribute neglecting to change the bandage on a head wound.

Afterward, I tentatively take a look at my leg. It looks… better. More like my leg. The swelling is almost gone, affording me a nice and gruesome look at my bone and muscle, but at least it's not gushing puss, and it's healing. That is more than I could have ever asked for.

I spend the afternoon trying to figure out things to do that the cameras might actually find interesting. I fashion a semi-bouncy ball out of some pliable vines wrapped around a pebble and toss it around. I stop, though after it hits Katniss in the arm. I'm sure the Capitol got a little bit of a laugh out of that. Maybe even Haymitch – assuming he's watching, no doubt through a drunken haze.

There's a leak in the cave roof – several, actually, I find upon examination. I immediately think of the plastic sheet that I was sitting on in the stream. Who would have thought it would come in so handy?

Being the handyman that I am, I fasten to the sheet to the ceiling with some vines tied to the stalagmites and stalactites. It falls a few times, but the end result is a functioning rain canopy, which I am pretty proud of.

After that, I clean, an activity that seems somewhat underwhelming, compared to chasing a ball around an enclosed area, but there's still a little blood on the floor, so I scrub until I'm tired. Then I lie back down next to Katniss.

I kiss her forehead and stroke her hair, her cheek. This gets boring after a while, but the longer I can keep the cameras on us, the more sponsors I can rally, the more gifts we can get, and the longer we can stay alive.

She finally stirs at sunset, and I jolt into action. "Katniss." I shake her shoulder, ever so slightly, gently jostling her. She groans. "Katniss, can you hear me?"

Her eyelids slowly part. Her eyes look pale and alert, and I am relieved that she's not in a vegetative state. "Peeta."

My heart inflates and so do my lungs, like I haven't been able to properly breathe until now. "Hey," I say, hearing the smile in my voice. "Good to see your eyes again."

"How long have I been out?" Her hand goes to her hair and I push it out of her eyes, kneeling before her.

"Not sure," I admit. "I woke up yesterday evening and you were lying next to me in a very scary pool of blood. I think it's finally stopped, but I wouldn't sit up or anything." My memories frown, but my grin remains. I'm too glad to be well again, too glad that _she's_ well again, to be angry at her for leaving me, knocked out no less, to go to the feast.

Katniss's grey eyes dart around the cave, and she lifts her head. I reach for the water skin at the sight of her cracked lips. She drinks for a long minute before saying.

"You're better." She swallows.

"Much better," I agree. "Whatever you shot into my arm did the trick. By this morning, the swelling in my leg was gone."

She nods. "Did you eat?"  
>I wish she would stop asking about me. "I'm sorry to say I gobbled down three pieces of that groosling before I realized it might have to last a while. Don't worry, I'm back on a strict diet."<br>"No, it's good," Katniss mumbles. "You need to eat. I'll go hunting soon."  
>It takes nothing more than her tired voice to tug on my sympathies and heartstrings. "Not too soon, alright? You just let me take care of you." I kiss her forehead.<br>There's not much I can do for Katniss, but I do everything I can. I feed her a day's worth of food and about a week's worth of water. I consider putting her shoes and socks back on, but they're still hanging from the ceiling over in the corner, not looking a bit drier than they were when I took them off. Her feet are so cold, though when I touch them. Katniss tells me my hands are warm, so I rub the heat onto her feet until the temperature is equalized. I grab my jacket and wrap her feet in that. The survival trainer at the Training Center told us that most of the body's heat leaves through the feet, so it's important to keep them covered.

"Your boots and socks are damp, and the weather's not helping much," I apologize. "I wonder what brought on this storm. I mean, who's the target?"

"Cato and Thresh," Katniss answers. I'd meant it to be a rhetorical question – or, at least I wasn't expecting answers. But she goes on.

"Foxface will be in her den somewhere, and Clove… she cut me, and then…"

"I know Clove's dead," I say, remembering the rainy midnight last night. "I saw her in the sky last night. So she was the one who did this to Katniss. _She really did have the heart of a snake_, I think. Old Peeta thinks otherwise, but I ignore him. "Did you kill her?"

"No," Katniss say. New Peeta thinks this is unfortunate. I ignore him too. "Thresh broke her skull with a rock."'

"Lucky he didn't catch you, too," I say.

Katniss swallows. "He did," she says, "but he let me go. Listen, before I found you, I allied with Rue. We made a plan, that I would blow up the Career's food while she lit some fires to distract them. And we did blow it up, or I did. But one of the fires wasn't lit, and then I found Rue, and the boy from One had stabbed her, so I killed. But she died anyway. So I sang her to sleep, or until she died, even though I couldn't hear half my song because the explosion made me deaf in my left ear. And afterward, I got some bread from Eleven – I guess as a token of thanks. And as I was leaving the feast, Thresh caught me, right after he killed Clove, I told him that I had sung her to sleep. And he let me go, because he thought he had failed to protect her or something, and he felt indebted to me for letting her go peacefully, amidst all this chaos."

I try and take a minute to absorb all this. Katniss had caused that huge explosion, the one that had shook the whole arena from the tree roots to the clouds? Katniss had killed the boy from 1? She was deaf in one ear? She'd seen Clove die, and had somehow, inadvertently, done Thresh a favor so great that he'd spared her life – something virtually unheard of in the arena –?

Boy had she gotten around. All while I was lying somewhere in the dirt.

"He let you go because he didn't want to owe you anything?" This, more than anything, makes my head spin.

"Yes," Katniss says tiredly, like she shouldn't have to explain. "I don't expect you to understand it. You've always had enough. But if you'd lived in the Seam, I wouldn't have to explain,"

Apparently this phenomenon isn't much of a phenomenon. "And don't try. Obviously I'm too dim to get it."

"It's like the bread. How I never seem to get over owing you for that."

"The bread?" I think back on that day. I haven't in such a long time. Even then, it seemed so long ago, but now feels like it was a million years ago a million miles away. I'd always told myself that it wouldn't matter five, ten years later, that my mother had hit my cheek for burning two loaves of bread and tossing them to the pigs. All I'd done was what she asked – to her, Katniss might as well have been a swine. But maybe it did matter.

I imagine what would have happened if I hadn't done it. Katniss might've died of starvation, succumbing to the cruel fate that many of those in the Seam did. That would've meant no squirrels. That would've meant some other girl would have been reaped. Which would've meant that I wouldn't be here right now, because there would have been no star-crossed lovers act, no rule change, and no affection between that other girl and I whatsoever. She might have killed me.

Is possible that I sealed my own fate – this one – that day in the rain?

The gravity of it all hits me like a ton of bricks. "What from when we were kids?" I grin. "I think we can let that go. I mean, you just brought me back from the dead."

"But you didn't know me," Katniss presses. "We had never even spoken." I'm afraid that if she tempts fate, we'll return to that day, and I'll simply put the bread on the counter, unburned, and forget the gaunt, grey-eyed girl I saw sitting under my window in the pouring rain. "Besides, it's the first gift that's always the hardest to pay back. I wouldn't even have been here to do it if you hadn't helped me then," I say. "Why did you, anyway?"

{"Why? You know why."

Katniss shakes her head.

"Haymitch said you'd take a lot of convincing."}

"Haymitch? What's he got to do with it?"

"Nothing." I shake my head and wonder if I really am going crazy. "So, Cato and Thresh, huh? I guess it's too much to hope that they'll simultaneously destroy each other?"

"I think we would like Thresh. I think he'd be our friend back in District Twelve." Katniss's voice is sad.

_Our_ friend. Somehow, I doubt that. But Katniss seems to know how to pick friends – excluding Gale, I guess. "Then let's hope Cato kills him, so we don't have to."

At my words, Katniss's eyes well up with tears. "What is it?" I ask, feeling a cold fist seizing my heart. A fierce protective instinct has inexplicably overcome me. "Are you in pain?"

"I want to go home, Peeta," she says, sniffing. Tears streak her face.

I exhale, feeling a longing for home too, a tugging feeling in my gut. "You will. I promise," I say and kiss her lips.

They're moving before I'm even upright again. "I want to go home now."

"Tell you what," I say, "you go back to sleep and dream of home. And you'll be there for real before you know it. Okay?"

* * *

><p><strong>That's all... for now. It was a sucky place to end, I know, but I got bored. Sorry! Anyway, thanks to my beta Sanctuaria for betaing (obviously). Also, I don't know how many people actually read my sneak preview of Burning Bliss, but I didn't get much feedback from that... I was thinking about putting the draft up again, but IDK. Anyways, I am really excited for that, of course, and I am trying to finish this up so I can work on that. <strong>

**Thanks for reading!**

**-seastar**


	32. Chapter 31

**A/N: Hey guys :D Merry Christmas Eve or happy holidays if you don't celebrate Christmas (I do)! So, yeah, I haven't updated in like 23 days... sorry! That's like 3 weeks. But yeah, I have a good excuse! I started another fic, Lady Midnight, you should check it out (shameless self-promotion). That probably won't affect my update schedule (haha) for this story though because I write those really fast. Anyway, I'm sorry I keep dragging out the story so long! I should be done by now! I really hope I'll be done by like February. Maybe. I just want to stay away from that 2 year mark... ugh. Two years of my life writing 1 Hunger Games fic? No. I'll be done and on with life by then. Yeah, I'm really grateful for everyone who's reviewed thus far, I get really excited when I see how close we are to 200! It would be awesome to make it there, so keep reviewing! I'll keep writing.  
><strong>**Now you can read it X) hehe**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. Derpy.**

* * *

><p>Katniss tells me to keep watch and wake her if anything happens.<p>

It doesn't, though, not that I can see. At one point, I think I hear voices – a deep one, and a high, snappy one, a boy and a girl, conversing in tense, low tones. There's a mucky-sounding _splash_, and amid the claps of thunder and the flashes of lightning, two laughs sound out.

They're almost… harmonious. I wonder who it could be. As far as I know, it's only Katniss, me, Cato, Clove, Thresh, and Foxface, as Katniss likes to call her. It couldn't be Cato and Clove; he would never let her laugh at him, let alone join in with her.

So Thresh and Foxface are working together. They've been rather subdued since we've entered the arena, aside from Thresh and Katniss's episode earlier. I make a mental not to stop calling her Foxface. I think her name is Reesa.

I let Katniss sleep until twilight. I'm worried about her head—and I'm starving. My stomach feels like it's digesting itself.

I prop her up against the cave wall, but she's doing pretty well supporting herself, so I let her be and get the food.

It's a meager spread—just a few pieces of that bird, so dried fruit like the kind we put in our fruit bread at the bakery, and some goopy ill-textured stew.

"Should ration it?" I ask, casting a distasteful look at the pot containing the stew. I'd rather eat it all now to get it over with, but even though I'm famished, there's no telling how much longer we'll have to stave off hunger.

"No, let's just finish it," Katniss mercifully rules. "The groosling's getting old anyway, and the last thing we need is to get sick off of spoiled food." Katniss divides the food evenly between the two of us. I practically inhale the stale provisions. The meal can in no way be called satisfying. Now I know how kids living in the Seam feel day in and day out. Just trying to survive is like rolling the dice in the most important game of all – life.

Katniss swallows the last bite of her food. "Tomorrow," she declares, "is a hunting day."

"I won't be much help," I say, though the idea of hunting does sound appealing. I'd like to see Katniss in action; her through-the-eye squirrels have always been a mystery. "I've never hunted before.

"I'll kill and you can cook, and you can always gather," Katniss says. I smirk. I should be the one doing the hunting, but when it comes to the great outdoors, compared to Katniss, I'm as inexperienced as a child.

"I wish there were some sort of bread bush out there," I say. I haven't realized, but my mind is still on the bakery. I've lived off of bread my whole life; if I could just get a piece, a crumb even, I might be able to get my strength up.

"The bread they sent me from District Eleven was still warm." Katniss sighs and reaches into the empty food bag. "Here, chew these." She draws a handful of leaves from one of the inner pockets of the pack. "Chew these."

I do, and my stomach grumbles. Or maybe that's the thunder—it's still raining, hard. The anthem plays. Katniss ducks her head out and cranes her neck up to the sky. "Nothing," she reports. "Where did Thresh go? I mean, what's on the far side of that field?" she asks me.

"A field." I recall one of my first days in the arena. "As far as you can see it's full of grasses as high as my shoulders. I don't know, maybe some of them are grain. There are patches of different colors. But there are no paths." Not that something as trivial as that would make a difference to a guy like Thresh. He probably forged his way through and made himself a lair.

"I bet some of them are grain," Katniss guesses, "and I bet Thresh knows which ones, too." She pauses for a moment. "Did you go in there?"

I shake my head "No. Nobody really wanted to track Thresh down in that grass. It has a sinister feeling to it. Every time I look at that field, all I can think of are hidden things. Snakes, and rabid animals, and quicksand. There could be anything in there."**  
><strong>

"Maybe there is a bread bush in that field. Maybe that's why Thresh looks better fed than he did when we started the Games," Katniss says.

I weigh Katniss's words. When put that way, the Games could be the best thing that ever happened to Thresh. A guarantee to food, albeit at the price of his safety. "Either that, or he's got very generous sponsors. I think that, were I watching the Games this year, opposed to being in them, I would have pilfered an extra coin or two from the bakery register, to help Thresh. And Katniss, of course. And the hypothetical boy who would be in my place. Strange, but when I think this way, I realize something: There's no place I'd rather be right now. We've made it; we're in the homestretch, if we could just get some food.

"I wonder what we'd have to do to get Haymitch to send us some bread," I say.

Katniss reaches for my hand. "Well, he probably used up a lot of resources helping me knocking you out," she says, her grey eyes twinkling.

"Yeah, about that," I say, trying to make my voice serious. It's hard when she's looking at me like that. "Don't try something like that again."

"Or what?" Katniss's cheek dimples.

"Or… or…" I can't think straight. All I can focus on is that dimple, and the feeling rising in my chest. I want to kiss her, fold her in my arms. I feel angry and ecstatic, I want to laugh and cry, I want to shout at the top of my lungs, but I have no idea what I want to say. "Just give me a minute."

"What's the problem?" Katniss asks.

"The problem is," I begin, "is that we're both still alive. Which only reinforces the idea in your mind that you did the right thing." _And I can't have you taking risks like that. Not for me, not ever. _

"I did do the right thing," Katniss says quietly.

"No. Just don't Katniss! Don't die for me. You won't be doing me any favors, alright?" Just thinking of losing her—its like dropping my heart down into a bottomless pit.

"Well, maybe I did it for myself, Peeta. Did you ever think of that?" My grip on Katniss's hand is so tight that her fingers are turning purple. I release them. "Maybe you're not the only one who… who worries about… what it would be like if…"

If we didn't both make it back? If I had to live without her? I could think of a million different things to complete that sentence. But it seems almost too good be true that she thinks the same way. "If what, Katniss?" I ask in an almost whisper.

"That's exactly the kinds of topic Haymitch told me to stay clear of." Katniss's hand drops. The magic's gone, but I can't let this go.

"Then I guess I'll just have to fill in the blanks myself." I lean over to kiss her. She melts into me. I lean my forehead in hers. I feel the bandage.

Now the spell is officially broken. I kiss her nose because her forehead is off limits. "I think your wound is bleeding again. Come on, lie down. It's bedtime anyway."

For the first time, I realize my heart is racing. The pulse is surging through my whole body. I release Katniss's hand, afraid she can feel it, or even worse hear it.

She doesn't, though, just reaches for her socks and hands the jacket to me. I can feel the air temperature in cave—approximately zero degrees— but there's a warm buzz travelling through my veins that counteracts the chill like a fur coat.

"I'll take the first watch," Katniss tells me. She starts toward the cave entrance, shivering like a leaf. I catch her wrist.

"No, I will," I say. "You've already done enough, including save my life, twice. I think you're off the clock."

"No, I want to," Katniss protests. "You're still sick. My job isn't done yet." She has that steely look in her eyes that only Seam kids get. Maybe it's their grey eyes that contribute to the effect, but I've only look this expression one other place—on the face of Gale Hawthrone, when I offered to pay for his lunch. He politely refused, while simultaneously making me feel like a criminal for even having asked.

There's no talking her out of this, I realize. I think we both know that no one is coming anyway, not in this weather. "Come sit, then," I sigh. "It's warmer down here." She sits and I entwine her in my arms, letting her head rest against my bicep. The muscle is much deteriorated compared to when we first entered the arena, but, unlike most girls I've held, I don't think Katniss minds. Not at all.

Katniss wakes me a few hours later. I hadn't even realized that I was asleep. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "You looked so peaceful."

I smile down at her. "It's alright. Get some rest, now, Katniss."

She yawns. "Tomorrow when it's dry, I'll find us a place so high in the trees we both can sleep in peace."_Of course her mind would be on the trees_, I think fondly. _I bet she'll dream about them._ I take the night vision goggles from her and look out on the night. After a while, I drift off. _Maybe I'll dream about her. _

We sit in soggy silence for the majority of the following day. I can't speak for Katniss, but last night was rather emotionally draining for me. I'd completely forgotten about the cameras, and yet, my role has carried on, and I rode it as easily as a leaf on the wind. I'd never been swept up in that kind of enchantment, not before last night. I've had other girls, but none of them have ever made me feel this way before.

Truthfully, I'd never even asked a girl to be mine back in 12. They all seemed to flock to me, after detaching themselves from their giggling masses. Katniss was never part of any of those groups. She seemed so much… simpler. And yet here I am, with a situation far more complicated than any that could ever possibly take place in District 12.

The Katniss I remember never particularly stood out. Sure, everyone knew her, as "the quiet girl from the Seam" or "the girl with the braid", but that kind of notoriety comes with sharing the same air with the same people in the same place every day for ten years. Back home, it probably seems unprecedented that someone so quiet and timid, the girl who was often times alone, would make it this far.  
>She's been hiding her strength. Or maybe reserving it for times like now, when she has to uses it to stay alive, or otherwise lend it to someone like me.<br>"Peeta?" Katniss asks, interrupting my reminisce. It's finally starting to get dark outside again. I cannot wait for the sun to set on this day. I've been waiting on tenterhooks for something- anything- to happen.  
>"Yes?" I reply.<p>

"You said in the interview that you'd had a crush on me forever. When did forever start?"

"Oh, let's see," I say, a picture immediately coming into my mind, a vivid memory. "I guess it was the first day of school. We were five. You had on a red plaid dress and your hair... It was in two braids instead of one. My father pointe you out when we were waiting to line up." I remember it well. The school yard, and the colors- the green of the grass and the dandelions that were interspersed within it, the blue of the sky, and the red of Katniss's dress. I could paint the scene.

"Your father?" Katniss asks, "why?"

"He said 'See that little girl?I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner.'" I remember my father's voice like it was yesterday. Like these were the last words he spoke to me.

"What?" Katniss is clearly in disbelief. I wonder if she remembers. I see her father, kneeling beside her smoothing her dress and hair, the wind in his own, and his laugh on the breeze. "You're making that up."

"No, true story," I assure her. "And I said 'Why would she marry a coal miner if she could have had you?' and he told me. 'Because when he sings... even the birds stop to listen.'" The words ring in my head, and for a moment, the rain outside clears, the sun comes out, and Mr. Everdeen kneels outside, unsullied by the mud, in front of his daughter, laughing.

"That's true," Katniss whispers. "They do." She clears her throat. "I mean they did."

I smile. "So that day in music assembly, when the teacher ask who knew the Valley Song, your hand shot straight up. She stood you up on a stool and had you sing it for us. And I swear, every bird outside the windows fell silent."

Katniss laughs. "Oh please."

"No really, it happened. And right when your song ended I knew- just like your mother- I was a goner. Then for the next eleven years, I tried to work up the courage to talk to you."

"Without success," Katniss points out.

"Without success," I agree. Alright, so maybe a fee parts of the story have been embellished, but it's mostly true. I doubt that I was in love at five years old. But I always admired a girl with a voice. "So in a way, my name being drawn in the reaping was a real piece of luck."

"You have... A remarkable memory," Katniss says after a while. She's not sure what to make of the story, I'm sure, but that's okay. What matters right now is what Panem thinks of it.

So I tuck a strand of Katniss's hair behind her ear. "I remember everything about you," I tell her. "You're the one who wasn't paying attention."

"I am now," she replies.

"I don't have much competition here."

"You don't have much competition anywhere."I can hear the audiences sighing. Katniss leans in and kisses me so sweetly that I can't tell if she's acting or not. That's always the question here: Real or not real?

I can't dwell on the question for long. Something lands on the rocks outside the cave. I don't know what it is—a footfall? An animal? Katniss grasps her bow.

I scoot cautiously toward the mouth of the cave, scarcely breathing. And I see something flash in the light of a thunderbolt. Something silver.

"Yes!" I exclaim, reaching outside for the object.

"Peeta—"Katniss starts to say, but I yank the parachute inside and pass it to her.

A basket is attached. I've never seen a gift of food this large, in all my years watching the Games. "I guess Haymitch finally got tired of watching us starve!"

Katniss grins. "I guess so."

* * *

><p><strong>Okay, I'm going to try to make the next one a good one. I was all excited about them bein' together in the cave, but frankly, its boring as poo right now. They are like about to break free thank goodness. That's all I have to say about the story besides that it was really short (sorry) and thanks to Sanctuaria (even this chapter wasn't betaed) and I will do shoutouts next chapter. AND I am looking to beta a story because that would be awesome. So If you need a beta, I'm your girl :D PLEASE someone let me? Anyway now I'm going to talk about random stuff. I'm obsessed with Downton Abbey guys, I watch like 5 episodes a week! And I love OneRepublic. Just so you know, I forgot the disclaimer so I'm putting it in now up top.<br>Yeah I'm being dumb. BYE!**

**-seastar**


	33. Chapter 32

**A/N: Finally! I'm really sorry guys, there wasn't even a single update for the month of January! I'm back though! I just had some stuff... that was really stressing me out. Anyway, not important. My philosophy now is to spit out as many chapters as I need to finish this and move on to Catching Fire! Ok? Ok? Now read! And how bout them RAVENS! WHOO that is 50 bucks in my pocket courtesy of Dad! Before I forget:**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own The Hunger Games. But I do own this story because I wrote. But I don't own the characters. So yeah.**

* * *

><p>We both stare at the food for a few seconds, after Katniss removes the parachute. It smells heavenly.<p>

"We'd better take it slow on that stew," I say, looking from Katniss, to the basket, and back to Katniss. There are apples, rolls, rice, and so many other Capitol delicacies that I almost want to cry. "Remember that first night on the train? The rich food made me sick and I wasn't even starving then." I thought I was. I know what real hunger feels like, now. More than one kind. This is the Hunger Games, after all.

Katniss gazes longingly at the food, the expression in her eyes telling that she almost doesn't believe this feast is real. That's new. That's disbelief. That's Seam Hunger.

I've seen it before- in the eyes of some of the kids at school, sitting at their cafeteria tables, the places in front of them empty. I've seen in the eyes of some of the miners, coming home from a hard day of subterranean work. I've seen it in Katniss's eyes, on the train.

Only now do I understand the feeling.

Katniss sighs. "You're right," she agrees. "I could just inhale the whole thing!"

I could too. Katniss divvies up the food- in disappointingly small portions. I try to eat slowly, but the food disappears into my stomach faster than I realize.

When it's gone, I look to Katniss. She's already done, and staring at the food. All at once, I wish I hadn't eaten mine, so that she could have just a little more, one extra bite. But it's not as though I can regurgitate the food now, like mother bird with its chicks. My stomach is already digesting it, and I feel hungrier than before I ate.

I'm not used to starving. Katniss is.

"I want more," she says simply.

"Me too," I admit. "Tell you what? We'll wait an hour. Then if it stays down, we'll eat another serving." There's no point in eating if we're just going to throw up.

"Agreed." Katniss pauses. "It's going to be a long hour."

I smile mischievously. "Maybe not that long. What were you saying before the food arrived? Something about me... No competition... Best thing that ever happened to you...?" I raise my eyebrows.

"I don't remember that last part," Katniss says, looking down at her lap meekly.

"Oh, that's right. That's what _I_ was thinking." Actually, I was thinking that the food was the best thing that ever happened to me, but I leave that part out for the benefit of Panem and the sponsors. "Scoot over, I'm freezing."

Katniss settles her body against mine. She radiates warmth, which I am grateful for. The temperature is starting to drop. "So," she says, smiling up at me, "since we were five, you never even noticed any other girls?"

"No, I noticed just about every girl, but none of them made a lasting impression but you," I admit. None of them filled the empty void in my life that I didn't even realize was there—until now. I feel complete with Katniss in my arms, like she fits or she's a missing part of the puzzle of my body and belongs there.

"I'm sure that would thrill your parents," Katniss muses. "You liking a Seam girl."

_Loving a Seam girl. _I let out a snort. "Hardly. But I couldn't care less." My parents knew I was a nice boy, but I don't think either of them really foresaw marriage in my future; it was pretty much assumed that I would be the one to continue the family business, just like my father had before my grandfather, and my grandfather had before his father. But if I were to get married, they'd probably rather me marry Delly, who's a bit of an airhead, admittedly (though I'd never say it aloud), than Katniss, regardless of that fact that she's sensible and beautiful. And also that fact that I think I love her, where I could never really love a girl like Delly. I wonder if my parents once loved each other…

"Anyway," I continue, "if we make it back, you won't be a girl from the Seam. You'll be a girl from the Victor's Village." The Victor's Village is a place where the citizens of District 12 can only dream of living, and even then, the mansion-like houses and picturesque I doubt my parents could argue with that.

"But then our only neighbor will be Haymitch!" Katniss burst out. I almost laugh. Of course, that would be the first thing on Katniss's mind.

"Ah, that'll be nice," I say, pretending to sound wistful, tightening my arms around Katniss. We have to give the cameras something. "You and me and Haymitch. Very cozy. Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire retelling old Hunger Games' tales." I'm not really looking forward to neighboring with Haymitch either, but at least we'll have each other.

"I told you he hates me!" exclaims Katniss.

"Only sometimes," I say, smiling mischievously. "When he's sober, I've never heard him say one negative thing about you."

"He's never sober," remarks Katniss sourly.

"That's right. Who am I thinking of? It's Cinna who likes you." He's a good man; there aren't many who can put up with Katniss Everdeen. "But that's mainly because you didn't try to run when he set us on fire. "On the other hand, Haymitch . . . well, if I were you, I'd avoid Haymitch completely. He hates you." I can practically hear the laughter.

"I thought you said I was his favorite," Katniss says. There's no way for me to tell how aware of our camera charade she is; is this a regular conversation, meant to be had in private? Or is this for all of Panem to see?

I decide to play it safe, though there are many other things I'd like to say. "He hates me more. I don't think people in general are his thing."

Katniss is silent for a while. I'm starting to get the feeling that the camera has cut to a more interesting part of the arena.

When she finally speaks again, she asks, "How do you think he did it, Peeta?"

I can't fathom what she means. "Who did what?" I ask.

"Haymitch," she replies. "How do you think he won the Games?"

"Oh." The question catches me by surprise, but I can't say that I haven't thought about it before. Haymitch obviously won the Games before Katniss and I were born—our parents were his age then, and he was sixteen when he won. They've never replayed his Games on television, not that I know of… So how did the man win?

Maybe he was strong and smart, once upon a time—drinking more than likely dampened his mental and physical faculties and abilities. But I can't help but wonder what kind of challenges he was faced with and how he conquered them. If I ever get out of here, maybe I'll ask him, if it isn't too much. I don't think I'll ever be retelling the story of my time in the arena, though.

"He outsmarted the others," I tell Katniss. "Just like we are." She doesn't say anything more. I think of Haymitch, somewhere faraway from here, directing sponsorships at mission control, pulling the strings, and, hopefully, trying to keep up alive. I know Katniss must think otherwise, but he must have heart, and if he doesn't, it was ripped out a long time ago by the kids he couldn't save. He's been a mentor for twenty-four years. That's a lot of death to have to watch and feel responsible for. Every year, he watched people, people he knew, maybe his friends, disappear into the arena, understanding better than anyone the terror they were going to face. And if Katniss and I win, I'll be the one to relieve Haymitch of that duty…

Katniss decides to take out the food. I don't try to argue—hunger is still a thought, constantly edging in the back of my mind, stuck there like a sharp knife or something stuck between my teeth.

We eat one serving, then another, and as Katniss is dishing out a third, the anthem starts playing. It's still pouring rain, so I put my eye to a crack in the stone wall of the cave, using it like a periscope to see the outside world.

"There won't be anything to see tonight," Katniss tells me. I hear the spoon scrape against the side of the stew container. "Nothing's happened, or we would've heard a cannon." The thought did cross my mind, but the dark of the sky brightens, just as I am about to pull away from the rock.

"Katniss," I say. My voice is soft with disbelief.

"What?" she asks, her mind clearly still on the food, "should we split another roll too?"

"Katniss," I say again, louder this time. I turn around. Her back is still to me, her head buried in her work.

"I'm going to split one," she says, as if she didn't hear me, "but I'll save the cheese until tomorrow." She finally turns her head and catches my stare. "What?"

"Thresh is dead."

Katniss narrows her Seam grey as at me for a fraction of a second, as if I'm playing a joke on her, and she can see right through it. Or so she thinks.

"He can't be," she says dismissively.

"They must have fired the cannon during the thunder and we missed it."

"Are you sure?" She shoves past me and presses her eye to the rock. "I mean, it's pouring buckets out there, I don't know how you can see anyth—" I know she sees it; I know she sees _him_, through the torrent of rain, like tears falling from his gigantic eyes. Because she collapses against the wall, lifeless. Then she pivots around to face me, and I see a flash of pensive bewilderment in her eyes. Then her expression goes slack, and it's gone.

"You okay?" I ask. I know exactly what she's thinking: Thresh saved her life; he is the only reason why she's here with me. I feel a sudden, overwhelming rush of gratitude toward him. He didn't have to save Katniss. Whether she lived or died shouldn't have mattered to him. But it did.

Katniss shrugs. "It's just… if we didn't win… I wanted Thresh to. But he let me go. And because of Rue."

She looks so sad that I want to wrap my arms around her, press my lips to her, or just rub her back and offer her some sort of comfort. But sadness is not the only emotion on her face—I see the anger, splashed across her cheeks in red.

"Yeah, I know," I say, picking up one of the forgotten plates of food. "But this means we're one step closer to District Twelve. Eat. It's still warm and it'll make you feel better."

She takes a bite. "It also means Cato will be back hunting us," she says. I can hear the worry fraying at the edges of her voice.

"And he's got supplies again," I agree, thinking aloud.

"He'll be wounded, I bet."

"What makes you say that?" I ask.

"Because Thresh would have never gone down without a fight," Katniss explains. "He's so strong. I mean, he _was_. And they were in his territory."

"Well good," I say, "the more wounded Cato is the better. I wonder how Foxface is making out." I don't know why, but I think of her. I'm pretty sure she was working with Thresh. No, I'm _sure _I heard them laughing together. Did she betray him? Leave him for dead at the first sight the Cato and whoever the remaining Careers are. Or did he defend her as he did Katniss?

"Oh, she's fine. Probably be easier to catch Cato than her."

"Maybe they'll catch each other and we can just go home," I say, stretching and yawning. "But we better be extra careful about the watches. I dozed off a few times."

"Maybe," Katniss agrees. "But not tonight." She digs into the rest of her food. I do the same.

* * *

><p><strong>It just broke 2,000 words : That totally was not worth the wait, I am so sorry! But I swear, I am going to update more! I feels like I wrote the beginning of this chapter AGES ago. Anyway, thanks to everyone who reviewed, especially ShutterBugMom! And thanks for Sactuaria for betaing! Please review! I really want reviews... and happy Valentine's day, because that's in like 10 days and it's like the only holiday in February. Too bad I'm forever alone :( Have a nice day everybody! :) Also, if anyone is interested, I'm going to be updating Lady Midnight in a couple of days :D If you haven't checked it out, please do! I'm really enjoying writing it. Thanks guys!**

**-seastar**


	34. Chapter 33

**A/N: Hey guys! First thing I have to say is: 199 reviews? Come on! Just one more until we get to 200! Why you gotta do me like that? :) lol anyway, thanks for getting me to 200 if I ever get there! Maybe I can get 300...? Pretty please?  
>Anyways, this chapter was a lot of fun writing :D I like it... I really need to start updating more. Seriously, Like, I haven't updated since the beginning of the month... But I was kind of in a slump. But yeah, you don't really care and I have to go... So read!<strong>

* * *

><p>The night is quiet; not even cricket can be heard—they were probably all killed in the fire. Either that, or their legs burned off and they can't make a sound. I never liked crickets anyway.<p>

But it does feel awfully lonely without them. Whenever I couldn't sleep back home, I just listened for the nightingale. I could always hear them from where I lay with my head on the pillow, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for its music to lull me to sleep.

I remember one night, sitting down at the dinner table, a bird sitting on the platter in front of the five of us, as usual. My mother was twirling three brown and white fingers between her red-fingered hands. My brother, Cole, asked for one. She gave it to him and I asked, "Where did those come from?"

"Mr. Everdeen shot us a bird," my father said, picking up the knife. I held out my hand for one of the feathers. My mom handed me one as well and I stroked my fingers along the soft down of the bottom.

"It's tiny," Aaron said. I agreed—even at eight years old, I could have eaten the whole thing myself. "What kind of bird is it?"

"It _was_ a nightingale," my father answered. "That's what Everdeen told me, anyway. See, the feathers are the right color."

I immediately dropped the feather. Just the other night Cole had told me what kind of bird was singing the songs outside in the middle of the night. And now he was munching on the source of the symphony.

"I wouldn't have let him shoot here, but at least he making good use of himself; that bird was making awful noises—kept me up till the morning." I had stared at my mother, horrified. She fixed me with a strange look and reached for the bread knife, not bothering to ask what was wrong.

That night, I was prepared to not sleep a wink. How could I, with my mother, the bird-murderer, sleeping just two doors down? I went to open the window and let in the spring air. That's when I heard the familiar sound.

Back then, I had thought that the bird had come back to life, or that it's tiny avian spirit lived on to sing for me. Now, I doubt that it was even another nightingale—I never saw another. The mockingjays probably just carried the melody on from that point on.

There are no mockingjays here.

I tear my gaze away from the vines that cover the mouth of the cave. I haven't blinked in what seems like hours. My eyes sting when I close them. I wish I could hear the nightingale one last time before I die.

I also wish I would hear the cannon. The sound that signals the end of another's life—and brings me closer to the rest of mine. There's no more grief left to be had; I'm pretty sure there are only Careers and the girl who was with Cato, Foxface, as Katniss likes to call her. I won't mourn for them.

Of course, I take for granted the fact that Katniss and me are a team. But who's to say that we'll stay a team? How long will it take for madness to take hold and for one of us to turn on the other? Hopefully it doesn't come to that.

Before anymore morbid thoughts can come to my head, I decide to eat something. It's been hours—though I have nothing to gage the time by, not even the moon, what with all the storm clouds.

I go the pack and remove a container of cheese, an apple and a dinner roll, of course. It's starting to go stale. The smell reminds me of home.

I have half the roll, a chunk of cheese, and part of the apple in my hand, like some kind of open-faced sandwich, and I'm just about to bite into it when Katniss sits up, her grey eyes wide and alert, like her sixth sense (I'm convinced that she must have one) told her that I was eating.

"Don't be mad," I say, handing over the food. She takes it and sniffs. "I had to eat again. Here's your half."

"Oh, good," she says, rubbing her eyes, then taking a bite. I prepare the other half and eat that myself. It even tastes like home. Torturously like home. I am even more determined to make it back there now than ever.

"We make a goat cheese and apple tart at the bakery," I tell Katniss, realizing that's essentially what I've constructed.

"Mm," she replies, "bet that's expensive."

"Too expensive for my family to eat," I say. "Unless it's very stale." And at that point not nearly as tasty as what I've just finished eating. But hunger will do that to you—the tiniest crumb seems like a feast, and the most disgusting thing like chopped liver will taste like a delicacy.

"Of course, practically everything we eat is stale." But after you've seen the mayor buying chocolate cake, stale bread just tastes like stale bread. I crawl into the sleeping bag and fall asleep the moment my head touches the floor.

I wake up blinking into the sun. Or maybe Katniss's eyes give off the illuminating light. I can't tell, but as she leans over me, I pull her down and kiss her lips.

I remember my father reading something to me once. _"What light through yonder window breaks… it is the east and Juliet is the sun." _He told me it was from some old book. He always had a penchant for literature, my father, said that his great, great grandfather owned a library before he owned a bakery. And he told me the story that was in the book, about two forbidden lovers, with feuding families and a love so strong that it led them both to death. He called them star-crossed lovers. Unfortunate. Ill-fated. What a fitting name the Capitol has given us.

Maybe Romeo felt like this when he kissed his Juliet. Maybe he saw the sun in her eyes.

"We're wasting hunting time," says Katniss, talking against my lips. I let go and she sits up, pushing her hair back from her face.

"I wouldn't call it wasting," I answer, pulling myself upright. I feel happy and somehow well today. Like even the pressure of my impending doom couldn't weigh me down. "So do we hunt on empty stomachs to give us an edge?" I ask, stretching.

"Nope, not us." Katniss takes out the rest of the stew and piles the plates high. "We stuff ourselves to give us staying power."

"Count me in," I say, my stomach growling. "All this?"

"We'll earn it back today," Katniss assures me.

"I'm not complaining," I say, grabbing a fork and digging in.

We eat for close to half an hour—it takes that long to work through all the stew. I hope that this will be the last meal we'll have to eat in the arena, before making it back home. Eating all the food makes me nervous; there's no absolute guarantee of any more, even given the fact that my district partner is a hunting prodigy.

"You know, I think I figured out why we've made it this far," I say between bites.

"And why is that?" Katniss asks, looking up at me from under her dark eyelashes.

"We're the best team."

Katniss raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Really," I reply. "Even though I'm kind of a bump on a log, I lo—like you." I clear my throat. I can't say it. "We care about each other. That's why we've survived. And you're the best partner a guy could ask for."

Katniss smiles down at her plate. She doesn't say anything, just traces patterns into the gravy, but the blush on her cheeks gives her away. She doesn't let anything else show, though. She licks her fingers and says, "I can feel Effie shuddering at my manners."

"Hey, Effie, watch this!" I toss my fork over my shoulder and start licking my plate, like I did as a kid after having eaten a rare desert. When I'm done slurping, I blow a kiss and say, "We miss you!"

Katniss clamps her hand on my messy mouth. "Hey, stop, Cato could be right outside our cave!" She's laughing, though.

"What do I care? I've got you to protect me now." I pull her, wriggling, toward me and kiss her cheek.

"Come on," she says, struggling away.

"Killjoy," I say kissing her again.

"I'd rather be a killjoy than be killed," Katniss points out seriously.

"Guess that's true," I admit. We start packing up. "Cato will be hunting us by now. He isn't one to wait for his prey to wander by."

"If he's wounded—"

I don't even let her finish. I know Cato. "It won't matter. If he can move, he's coming."

We try out my leg as we're about to leave. It's not terribly bad. At least I'm mobile again.

"Okay," Katniss says, "if we want food, we'd better head back up to my old hunting grounds."

"Your call," I respond, "just tell me what to do. I'm yours to command."

"Keep an eye out," she instructs. "Stay on the rocks as much as possible, no sense in leaving him any tracks to follow. And listen for both of us." She taps her left ear.

"Drill sergeant Katniss," I say, trying to keep up as she takes off. "Sir, yes, sir."

We walk for a while, In seemingly aimless directions. I realize that Katniss is trying to navigate the easier terrain, but it's a job finding places that I can walk. A job that only results in more walking. Oh, well. As long as the tight bandages don't strangulate my legs, I'm sure I'll be fine. I've made it this far, right?

Katniss starts glancing behind her every five seconds, which starts making me nervous. I start watching my back too, listening more closely, jumping at every sound that the two of us aren't making.

After the fiftieth glance, I can't take it anymore. "What?" I demand, catching her eye.

"You've got to move more quietly," she says. "Forget about Cato, you're chasing off every rabbit within a ten-mile radius."

"Sorry, I didn't know." She could have told me earlier. My sense of paranoia doesn't stop growing as we continue. I try being quieter, but every time my bad foot falls, it sounds like a miniature earthquake, and there's nothing I can do about it.

Katniss obviously doesn't understand this plight. "Can you take your boots off?" she asks fifteen minutes later.

"Here?" _No way, _I think. I'd do a lot of things for Katniss—and perhaps even more for food—but this is not one of them.

"Yes," Katniss says like she's talking to a five year-old. "I will too. That way we'll both be quieter."

I frown and grudgingly remove the boots. I leave the socks, though, for padding and protection. Katniss puts hers away. Her feet take to the earth like they've been molded out of the dirt. I continue stomping my way through the forest like a giant.

We walk for a few more hours, and Katniss suddenly stops. We must have reached her old stomping grounds. She looks around for a few minutes, considering. I can tell what she's thinking.

"We need to split up," I say. "I know I'm scaring away all of the game."

"Only because your leg's hurt."

"Sure," I say, because I know she can tell that I'm not cut out for the wilderness; this is her element. "So, why don't you go on? Show me some plants to gather and that way we'll both be useful."

"Not if Cato comes and kills you," Katniss says.

I just laugh. "Look, I can handle Cato. I fought him before, didn't I?"

Katniss looks like she wants to roll her eyes. She's clearly irritated, clearly thinking of what she could be doing if I wasn't slowing her down. I don't think that's fair, because frankly, she would be dead without, just as I would be without her.

"What if you climbed a tree and acted as lookout while I hunted?" she asks, her tone colored again with condescension.

"What if you show me what's edible around here and go get some meat?" I snap.

Katniss sighs and shows me some roots to dig up. Then she teaches me a bird whistle and leaves.

I'm glad to be disengaged from our battle of egos. I set to work. She whistles to me and I whistle back so she knows I'm okay. I find the roots, some good-looking leaves, and some berries. I don't trust my judgment on what's edible and what's not, though, I so I don't eat anything. I'll wait for Katniss to sort out the deadly and the non-deadly.

I've dug up all the roots in the vicinity, it seems like, so I stack everything that I've found on the sheet of plastic and organize the rest of our supplies, wait for Katniss to make her reappearance. She doesn't. I whistle, though and she whistles back. If only I had a whistle that meant "come back, I'm bored". Yes, bored. Somehow, I doubt that Cato is going to be showing up here. Still, every movement within sight catches my eyes, and I'm watchful.

I get stir-crazy eventually, and get up, giving a whistle. I hear the stream off to my left and go to see if there's anything good down by the bank.

I'm picking some berries when I hear a frantic shout of, "Peeta! Peeta!"

My mind reels. Cato. I try to take off running, but I can't get beyond a painful jog. I catch sight of Katniss, her bow out. She fires, which shocks me. My berries go flying, and my heart is pounding inside my chest. Is she alright? She looks fine. Why did she try to shoot me? Luckily she missed, though it couldn't have been an accident. Maybe she thought I was Cato.

"What are you doing?" she demands, closing the rest of the distance between us, "you're supposed to be here, not running around the woods!"

"I found some berries by the stream," I say, examining her. _She's fine, _I tell my skipping, panicking heart. _She's fine. _

"I whistled. Why did you whistle back?"

"I didn't hear. The water's too loud I guess." I wrap my arms around her. She's shaking, whether with fear or anger it's impossible to tell.

"I thought Cato killed you!" she says as loudly as she dares.

"No, I'm fine." She doesn't say anything and feels stiff in my arms. "Katniss."

She pushes away and looks me straight in my eyes. "If two people agree on a signal, they stay in range," she says, in a manner very much like my mother's. "Because if one of them doesn't answer, they're in trouble, alright?"

"Alright!" I say, seeing Katniss with greying blonde hair and sharp, pointy nose for a moment. Before I can say anything else, she turns to the food, which is a few feet away and opens a bottle of water, obviously trying to ignore me. This doesn't last long, though. "And you ate without me!" she explodes.

"What? No I didn't," I say crossing my arms. How can she angry with me? It was a simple mistake. I'm not used to roughing it, let alone with someone else. How was I supposed to know? And now she's blaming me for eating the stupid food, even though she's just come back from hunting.

"And I suppose the apples ate the cheese," Katniss sniffs sarcastically.

"I don't know what ate the cheese," I say slowly, approaching the plastic square and seeing that a section of the chunk is missing, "but it wasn't me. I've been down by the _river _collecting berries. Would you care for some?"

I can feel Katniss's scowl as if it's something palpable. She bends down and picks up the berries from the plastic. She has one in her fingers and rolls it around, like she's about to crush it like a bug or turn around and hurl it at me. I'm beginning to wonder if she fired the arrow at me to teach me a lesson.

Then the cannon fires. Katniss whips around, panic in her eyes when they meet mine.

I grab her arm. "Climb," I say, every survival instinct I've gained in the arena kicking in. "He'll be here in a second. We'll stand a better chance fighting him from above."

Katniss stands rooted to the spot, looking past me. I see the hovercraft with the redhead in its claw, not three hundred yards from where we are. "GO!" I shout in her ear. If there ever was a time for Katniss Everdeen _not _to be frozen in shock—

"No, Peeta," she says. "She's your kill, not Cato's."

I drop Katniss's arm, still unconvinced, ready to carry her if I have to. "I haven't even seen her since the first day, how could I have killed her?"

Instead of answering, Katniss shows me the berries.

* * *

><p><strong>Review everyone! I wasn't kidding when I said I had to go! Haha toodles! And thanks to Sanctuaria for betaing!<strong>

**-seastar**


	35. Chapter 34

**A/N: I'm so sorry guys! I know I haven't updated in like 2 months! I've been busier and lazier than like ever before in my life :( Ugh, school is so stupid! I have finals coming up so who knows when I'll be updating again. But I'll just be honest and say that I've had time to update, but I've been stuffing myself full of another fandom that I am freaking IN LOVE with. The Infernal Devices. O.M.G. I love it. I couldn't love it any more than I do. So Hunger Games seems mediocre in comparison. I need to revamp the hype. The KPG love triangle isn't really in this book, and love triangles pretty much fuel my existence. **

**Anyway, before I rant on pointless any further, just read the chapter. I have no clue when I'll be updating again, but when I do, it will be like the almost last chapter. I'm so excited to get this over with so that I can show you guys the next one! #can'twait!  
><strong>

**Just kidding about the hashtag. Needless to say, those never need to make their way onto this site, probably not even in a joking manner. Okay, I'm done now. **

* * *

><p>I'm still confused, so I stare blankly at the berries as if they could yield some potentially useful information. They look just like the sugar berries (if that's really what they're called) that Katniss fed to me in the Cave a few days back.<p>

"Listen," Katniss says finally, sensing that I don't understand, "before I blew up those supplies, I realized that Foxface had been stealing their food, little by little. She probably doesn't know the difference between poison oak and string beans, so she didn't want risk it. When she saw that you were collecting the berries, she thought they were safe. But they weren't."

I'm still bewildered. I just killed somebody- indirectly. Strangely, I don't feel even remotely guilty. Sorry, and shocked, but not responsible in any way.

"I can't believe she found us," I say. "It was my fault, I guess, if I'm as loud as you say."

Katniss looks down and my suspicions are confirmed; it {was} my fault. But she can't be angry at me for eliminating the competition. That was my intention all along, of course.

"Well, she's very clever, Peeta. Or she was, until you outfoxed her."

"Not on purpose," I say. "It doesn't seem fair, really. I mean, we would've both been dead, too, if she hadn't eaten the berries first." Katniss has a gleam in her eye. "No, of course not," I correct myself. "You recognized them, didn't you?"

Unsurprisingly, Katniss nods. "We call them nightlock."

"I'm sorry, Katniss. I really thought they were the same ones you'd gathered."

"Don't apologize," says Katniss, a smiles tugging at the corner of her lips, "it just means we're one step closer to home, right?" She looks like she wants to give me a high-five, which is ridiculous, considering I've just killed a girl. I wonder if this is what Katniss looks like after making a kill in the woods back home. A little closer to living another day, distanced once again from starvation. And now, a little closer to home.

"I'll get rid of the rest," I say, gathering up the plastic and getting ready to hurl the little blue spheres into the woods.

"Wait," Katniss says, her hand abruptly finding my shoulder. She brandished a leather pouch at me. "If the fooled Foxface, they might fool Cato as well. If he's chasing us or something, we can pretend to drop the pouch, and if he eats them..."

"Hello District Twelve." I smile.

"That's it," Katniss replies, approval coloring her tone.

I feel better now that we have a plan. "He'll know where we are now," I say, "if he was anywhere nearby and saw that hovercraft, he'll know we killed her and come after us."

Katniss considers for a moment. "Let's make a fire. Right now," she decides, and kneels down and starts scooping up leaves and sticks to burn.

"You're ready to face him?" I ask, surprised. It doesn't seem like a very effective tactic, calling Cato over to kill us, like we might ask him over to breakfast.

"I'm ready to eat," Katniss replies, breaking a branch in half once, twice, three times. "Better cook our food while we have the chance. If he knows we're here, he knows; but he also knows there's two of us and probably assumes we were hunting Foxface. And that means you're healed. The fire means we're not hiding, we're inviting him. Would you show up?"

I smile slightly. I should have known that Katniss would never do anything without a reason. My heart swells a little, and I forgive her for flying off the handle when I didn't answer her signal. Katniss is a smart girl and she cares about me, while every other person in this arena probably despises me. "Maybe not," I say, kneeling down beside the pile of wood. Katniss has a pair of flint stones and I strike them together to start the fire going. The wood's wet and unwilling, but I'm used to starting the ovens in the bakery, and I started fires in the Training Room back at the Capitol.

Katniss kills two birds with one stone by wrapping the meat and roots in leaves and greenery while they cook. I gather more while she tends the fire. It looks like we're sending up smoke signals, but I guess that's what we're trying to accomplish. I watch as the grey stuff rises and hits the top of the force field that they're using to keep us trapped inside the arena. I wonder how they get fresh air in here. Maybe they don't; maybe if we're in here for long enough, we just run out of oxygen and die of suffocation.

Once the food's well-done Katniss packs it up and gives me a rabbit leg to munch on. It tastes like chicken, or maybe I just tell myself that. The fact that I'm actually eating a sweet little forest creature is a repellent one. I vow to become vegetarian if I ever get of here. I know what it's like now to be caged and hunted.

Katniss is leading us through the woods, looking up at the trees, not watching her back. I'm poised and ready for a Cato-attack, when all of a sudden, Katniss stops short, one foot outstretched in front of the other. Her neck is craned skyward again, and I know what she's thinking.

"I can't climb like you, Katniss, especially with my leg," I say, coming to an abrupt halt to keep from slamming into her. "And I don't think I could ever fall asleep fifty feet above the ground."

"It's not safe to stay in the open, Peeta," Katniss argues.

"Can't we go back to the cave?" I ask, frowning. "It's near water and easy to defend."

Katniss gets a sour look on her face, but it dissipates quickly, her eyebrows unknit themselves, and she gives me a kiss. "Okay. Let's go back to the cave."

I breathe a sigh of relief. "Well, that was easy."

It takes hours to hike back to the cave, though, and I can see why Katniss was hesitant to go back there. By the time we make it, after collecting wood for the fire, walking up and down hills with a heavy pack, and wading through a stream, I'm exhausted. I feel like a castaway who's just made it back to dry land; I haven't realized how spent I was until now. When I first got into the arena, I could have taken today like nothing. Now, I'm used to being out of breath with light activity, and I'm used to be able to see every bone in my ribcage with clear definition.

Katniss take pity on me and rolls the sleeping bag out on the floor, then me into it from where I've decided to collapse. I fall asleep instantly.

_I've hardly dreamed since I've been in the arena, apart from the feverish hallucinations that overtook me, which were few. But Tonight, I do dream. I see myself and Katniss, sitting together in a parlor, sipping some kind of teal-colored juice from little tea cups. There's a screen in front of us—screens all around us. Twenty-four, I count, but only three are lit. Two have a soft purple glow emanating from them, and one features a dark, grey pit of some sort. The walls are jagged, the floors uneven. It looks almost like a cave. A lone leg is visible, the toes flexing themselves through a muddy, wet-looking sock._

"_Won't be long now," I say, looking over at Katniss. She looks… different, somehow, her face, while not gaunt, lacking some of its usual roundness. Older. _

_She shakes her head, and her hair falls over one of her shoulders. She sweeps it back gracefully. "Not long at all. A few more days, at most. I hope they make it. Well, one of them."_

_She locks her eyes on mine. They're bloodshot, red interweaving the grey and white, with purple bags underneath them, like she hasn't slept in days, weeks even._

_One of the screens lights up with an alerting _beep_. The same image of a cave fills this one, but an actual human being is in the frame this time. _

_He is pale, with matted hair, the color unidentifiable because of the dirt and blood in it. His eyes, blue, have the same purple shadows under them as Katniss's do. "Hey," he says, and, jarringly, I recognize the voice. "You're awake." _

_On the one previously active screen, the picture has changed. Instead of a ceaselessly moving foot, I can now see someone—a girl—rolled up in a sleeping bag. She says groggily, "I'll take the watch now," to which the boy replies in the hauntingly familiar voice, "I'm not tired. Go back to sleep if you want." _

_The girl sits up. And I see her face. _Katniss. _My head whips around to stare at the Katniss that is sitting beside me. She is unfazed, watching through placid, tired eyes. "No," the Katniss on the screen says. I look the other monitor. The boy is still visible, bandaged leg outstretched, foot bootless. Me. "No, I won't be able to fall back asleep anyway."_

I feel someone shaking my shoulder. It seems like I was only sleeping for the two-minute timespan in which the dream took place. I open my eyes into Katniss's. They're shadowed, bloodshot, like the girl's from my dream. I can't help but wonder if that's what she'll look like when—if—the time in my dream ever comes. Will be condemned to a life of watching children from our district die, year after year after year? As the prospect becomes more likely, that thought has been hovering somewhere in the back of my mind more and more often.

I blink the sleep from my eyes and make the decision to not trouble Katniss with my dream. "I slept the whole night," I say, seeing the dawn-grey light outside the cave. "That's not fair. You should've woken me." No wonder she has bags under her eyes.

Katniss just yawns. "I'll sleep now. Wake me up if anything interesting happens." She wriggles down into the sleeping bag beside me. It's not exactly cold tonight, but I feel warmer with her beside me. Her head droops and I move it to my shoulder.

I think about my dream. At this point, I know I'll do everything within my power to keep the girl sleeping next to me safe. But for what? I look at her and I know that I can't bear let her be condemned to that fate. I wouldn't want to wish that on anyone. Watching every other girl from District 12 die, year after year after year, would be like watching Katniss die over and over and over again. The only way to lessen that pain is to keep her with me.

I kiss her cheek. Strange how I feel so protective of her when she's the one who's usually trying to protect me. But she's so slight, so small, that I can't help but feel that way. She feels so breakable. I pray that I'll never see her broken.

The morning passes into the afternoon and Katniss looks so peaceful that I can't wake her. She does wake up of her own accord, though, eventually, and rubs her eyes with her grimy hands. I wonder if I look as dirty as she does—not that I mind; I would still love Katniss if she was made of mud—and if I do, does she think anything of it? Do I smell? Not like roses anymore, I'm willing to bet.

"Any sign of our friend?" Katniss asks, sitting up.

I shake my head. "He's keeping a disturbingly low profile," I answer.

"How do you think we'll have before the Gamemakers drive us together?"

I stop short. I hadn't thought of that. God forbid we just wait it out until Cato dies—it's bound to happen sometime. But no, the Gamemakers probably—no, _definitely_—have something up their sleeves. The floor of this cave probably turns into a pit of venomous vipers or something.

"Well," I consider, "Foxface died almost a day ago, so there's been plenty of time for the audience to place bets and get bored. I guess it could happen at any moment."

"Yeah, I have a feeling today's the day," Katniss says grimly. She pauses. "I wonder how they'll do it."

I don't respond. That's not something I want to think about right now. Honestly, it's a bit morbid, contemplating your own death. There are so many different ways we could go anyway, so I don't think there's really any point in trying to guess.

"Well, until they do, there's no sense in wasting a hunting day," Katniss decides. "But we probably should eat as much as we can hold, in case we run into trouble."

I can live with that. We pack and eat all of the food that we have left. For the first time since my initial Capitol-full stomach emptied, I feel satisfied. But I'm thirsty, now. There's an empty water skin, so after I drink my fill, we head out to fill it up, taking one final glance at our makeshift home before leaving it, hopefully for good.

Given what Katniss said earlier, I'm not surprised to find the stream as dry as a bone.

Katniss frowns in consternation. "Not even a little damp. They must have drained it while we slept."

"The lake," I say, "that's where they want us to go." We can't survive long without water. We could hypothetically wait it out, but the lure of the lake would likely be too strong.

"Maybe the ponds still have some," Katniss suggests, clearly not ready to accept our fate. Maybe we can try to drown Cato.

"We can look," I say, seeing no reason why we shouldn't.

As we walk, Katniss starts worrying the singed ends of her hair. The pond she leads us to is nothing but a sandpit. "You're right," she concedes. "They're driving us toward the lake." She inhales, long and loud. "Do you want to go straightaway, or wait until the water's tapped out?"

I want to grit my teeth and wring my hands. I want to throw up—preferably on Cato. The thought of having to fight him, having to kill him, is physically deterrent. My hands curl into fists and I can't unfurl them. "Let's go now, while we've had food a rest," I say, adrenaline making my words sound confident. "Let's just go end this thing."

I wrap my arms around Katniss, tight. The sun emerges from behind a cloud, and I feel it's rays shine of both of us. Surely a good omen. "Two against one, right? Should be a piece of cake." I nuzzle her neck.

She smiles at my bakery joke. "The next time we eat, it will be in the Capitol."

"You bet it will," I say, and for a moment, she has me convinced, as the sunlight plays on both of us, mottled because of the tree leaves. I believe that we will be eating in the Capitol. I believe that we will be the victors of the 74th Hunger Games. And when she kisses me, I believe that she loves me back. There's no way to tell with any of these things—but it's nice to hope.

* * *

><p><strong>Yay, you're finished! Review, please! I was so excited when I hit 200! Then it just died because I didn't update. Next is the mutations. I might just have to write that when I get out of school... And that's in like a month :( Sorry! Bear with me. <strong>

**Uh... there's nothing else I can really say. Okay then, toodles! And review! I really appreciate the favoriting and following, but I want to know what you guys think! Please leave me reviews? Please? :)**

**-seastar**


	36. AN

**Alright, this might be a terrible idea, but I was thinking about moving on to Catching Fire without finishing this one... I really want to update, but I'm stuck. I don't think I can make it to the end. And I already have about 5 chapters of the Catching Fire story written. What do you guys think? You can leave a review or PM me. I asked my beta too. We'll see what happens. Thanks for all the reviews guys! Hopefully you'll stick around for what's coming up next! :D**


End file.
